


Do you know what I'm seeing?

by Chasingpaper



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Paranormal, Psychic Abilities, Secrets, Trust Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2007855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chasingpaper/pseuds/Chasingpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you tell people you can see ghosts? For Neal he has never known anything different, but when he winds up on a work release deal with Agent Peter Burke his gift becomes more important to him than ever before. But he's spent his life being misunderstood, and his childhood in a mental institution because of it. Can he trust Peter to believe him or should he do what he's best at - being someone else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's a Ghost Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to do something White Collar AU for a while, and I've wanted to write a psychic fic for even longer. So this sorta happened. A great deal of my summer has been spent with a box set of "Ghost Whisperer" so the basic concept of Neal's ability stems from there, but the story is my own.
> 
> Title is from the song of the same name by Panic! At the Disco. 
> 
> This story will be updated in chapter's, though I'm not sure how quickly or slowly I will put out new chapters, as despite having the basic story outlined there is no other work on this story so far but this chapter. Some people say unorganized, I prefer spontaneous.
> 
> This first chapter deals with Neal's past to bring the story up to date, but I promise Peter will appear next, and there will be much more dialog and Neal/Peter banter as well as a healthy dose of hurt/comfort in the future. Tags may be changed/updated, depends how this goes - like I said, spontaneous. Currently, Chapters 7 onwards is being beta'd by VividEscapist.

Neal had been able to see ghosts all his life.

Not just feelings or sensations, images in his 'mind's eye', or any of that other psychic crap. But there, in front of him, as real as they were in life. A whole new spin on the term 'dead man walking'. It had taken a heck of a lot of getting used to - I mean how were you supposed to tell your parents that your 'imaginary friend' was actually late Uncle Albert, or sweet old Mrs Eden from next door who'd died six months ago from a heart attack.

Ghosts had been the focus point of his childhood for as long as he could remember. His earliest memories of them were that they would be standing around his bed while he slept - which surprisingly didn't frighten him like it probably should of. Instead, it helped him overcome his fear of the dark, and since then he'd trusted them entirely. But then again, he'd always been a strange child, fascinated by the stuff people had yet to understand, things that shouldn't exist, but do.

He would see them, the ghosts, on the way to school every morning. He'd see them so often that they quickly became 'the locals' to him, and it only seemed normal to greet each one upon passing, a nod here, subtle wave there - he was only a child but even he knew there were some things others weren't meant to see. Though it took a while, with a lot of incidents he'd like to forget, he realized eventually he was the only one who could see them. Why? He was about as clueless as the next person.

He knew every one of them by name, what they'd done in life, how they'd died...

He thought it would have been rude to ask a spirit how they'd died, but they didn't seem to mind. If anything, they were just as perplexed by him as he was, them.

Unfortunately this left him with very little friends - living ones that is - and he spent most of his school life being the strange, quiet kid that people tended to avoid and didn't look at twice. Nobody wanted to be associated with the kid who talks to himself.

Needless to say, he'd had a strange and somewhat lonesome childhood. It wasn't too bad - reading book after book on ghosts, psychic abilities and other mediums left him little time for friends, so he preferred his own company. He thrived on knowledge and understanding, so spent most of his time at the library, much to the concern of the librarian who kept trying to politely suggest books more appropriate for kids his age. He told her that he wasn't a normal kid, which seemed to be a good enough answer, because she promptly gave him the space he needed.

Neal wanted to understand his ability, even if nobody would ever believe him when he told them he wasn't crazy. But nothing he read explained what he saw. No other mediums he had read about saw what he saw, as vividly as he did. He didn't just 'communicate' with the dead. He had face to face conversations with them, which was something entirely different and no amount of research could provide an explanation. He'd started to think he was slowly going insane. Maybe he was.

After all, communicating with the dead like most mediums claimed to practice wasn't really the same as spending a Sunday afternoon discussing the ups and downs of baseball in the 1930's, with the spirit of a dead baseball champion - All while you were supposed to be watching the game with your parents.

He sketched and painted the people he spoke to, which allowed him to discover he had a keen eye for detail and could work wonders with a paintbrush. He painted all the time, but made sure to keep his sketchbooks hidden away, because he didn't know how to explain who these people were other than being able to see them while other's couldn't. He didn't want his parents to ask any more questions that what they already did.

When he reached high school - when he became too old for 'imaginary friends' and 'over-active imaginations' to be acceptable, his parents grew concerned. Well, visibly concerned; he was sure they'd known something was wrong all along, but only now thought he was old enough for the subject to be brought up. They'd tried to speak to him about it, and when that didn't work they'd made him see a therapist to talk about what he saw.

But he wasn't a very talkative person.

Once they thought they had tried everything, his parents began to just ignore his unusual behavior. Turn a blind eye when they saw him in the living room, talking to a blank space in front of the door, and pretend they couldn't hear him pacing in his room and muttering quietly to himself on a night. It became something they never spoke about. Neal felt sorry for his parents, really he did, because it had to be hard having such a messed up kid.

Through all this, there was one person who'd understood him, who he could talk to about his abilities. A real, living person. Her name was Ellen, and she was psychic too, just not in the way he was. His father was a cop, and she was his partner on the force, so she'd become a familiar presence in his life, and someone he could talk to when he was doubting himself. She could understand him the way his parents couldn't. Ellen made him feel normal when everyone else didn't, and though she didn't understand his gift anymore than he did, she'd helped him to embrace and understand it. When he was with Ellen, he felt human again. He felt like a normal kid.

It didn't last. When he finally thought his life was going to work out, shit hit the fan and his whole world was turned upside down.

\---

He was fifteen when his mother placed him into an institution - 'Sunnydale Hospital'

A name couldn't get much cheesier than that. Neal wondered if they believed picking the most uplifting, optimistic name they could think of would disguise the ugliness hidden inside. It didn't.

They called it a hospital, when in reality it was a crazy factory - a place where the people who didn't fit into 'normal' society were left to rot. He didn't blame his mother for the decision, because he'd given everyone more than enough reason to worry when he'd broke down in the hospital reception. Not Sunnydale Hospital reception, but a real hospital. A hospital where people died.

The hospital where his father and Ellen had died.

_He'd awoke to the sound of hysterical crying. The kind that was loud, uncontrollable, ugly. He'd crept down the stairs to find his mother just as she'd put the phone down - she'd grabbed his arm and told him they needed to go to the hospital because daddy had been injured at work, but that everything was going to be alright. Told him that he had to stay strong because it would be alright. Neal had spent the whole car journey towards the hospital wondering why people only told you things would be okay when things were really, really bad. When you got told that, things most likely wouldn't be okay at all. You never get told that when you have a cold, or chickenpox, or any of those other times things seemed to fall apart but could still be put together again._

_Neal knew that whatever had happened, he'd never be able to put the pieces back together.  
_

_They only lived ten minutes away from where his father could be dying, but it felt like they were driving forever, down a long narrow road with no end. No goal to reach, but too late to turn back._

_Didn't that just sum up his life in a nutshell.  
_

_He made it three steps into the hospital reception area when he saw them. He didn't need to be told they were too late, to see the grim faces of the doctor, signalling for him and his mother to follow, most likely to someplace quiet where the rest of the waiting room couldn't see a family torn apart by grief._

_They were stood in the middle of the reception. Gazing towards him with lost, broken expressions. They were still covered in the blood they'd died in, from multiple gunshot wounds on a drugs bust gone wrong. His father wouldn't meet his eyes, now knowing what his son had been tormented by his entire life. Ellen took a step forward, perhaps about to console him, but he didn't get to hear what she was going to say because the air was suddenly too thick, the lights were too bright and the room too small, and there was someone screaming, screaming, blood curdling screams that reverberated through him, until he realized it was him making all the noise._

_He was shouting, screaming at them, demanding answers to things he would never understand, things nobody could ever help him understand. Oh God, he was all on his own. He dug his nails into his head, begging for them to get out, to leave him alone. There were other ghosts there, more than he'd ever seen in one place at once. Too many, all torn away from their families and loved ones. He couldn't breathe. All expecting him to pass on messages, but why should he give a shit about them when he'd just lost two people that were irreplaceable in his life, and God, he was so alone. So, so alone...  
_

_He must have caused quite a scene, because minutes later there were people surrounding him, holding him down while he kicked and fought and telling him to calm down. Telling him everything would be alright. He'd laughed, a hysterical, maniacal laugh because they too were lying - nothing was going to be okay now. Not now that he'd proved to everyone that he was insane, totally off his rocker. He felt a sharp prick in his arm and the concerned faces hovering around him began fading in his tunneling vision. Soon he was slipping down, down, into a place where nobody could tell him everything would be fine because it was all lies, lies, lies-_

"Hey, mon frere?" Neal jerked back into reality at the sound of fingers clicking in front of him, trying to catch his attention.

He looked up into the face of the crazy little paranoiac that had become his only friend at Sunnydale. Looking down at the chess board between them, he knew by the concerned look on his friend's face that it was still his turn, and he'd been staring blankly at the pieces long enough to be noticed, caught like a deer in the headlights in his moment of weakness. Damn flashbacks.

The man was older than Neal, in his late twenties, with blond shaggy hair that was quickly balding, and thick rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose. He was probably the most paranoid person Neal had ever met, the complete definition of crazy, but a true friend nonetheless. His records said his name was Dante Havisham, but he'd told Neal his real name was 'M'. Or at least, he'd told Neal that was all he could tell him, because it was a possibility that Neal was working for a secret government organization planning on taking over the world.

"Yeah, I know, my turn."

Neal had been sectioned after the hospital reception drama for 24 hours, to ensure he wasn't a risk to himself. There, he'd been given a psych evaluation which was ultimately what lead him to being placed in Sunnydale. The psych consultant that had come to see him had been friendly, but really Neal knew he was nothing more than a patient to be given a label, and another contribution towards the man's pay check. He was only pretending to care, it was clinical interest.  _"Answer my questions truthfully..."_ he'd been told, _"Everything will be okay, trust me."_

But Neal hadn't trusted him, and everything wasn't okay. Another lie. He'd been diagnosed with schizophrenia - it made sense after all: the violent behavior during his breakdown, the 'hallucinations' and 'delusions', the 'voices in his head'. It made perfect sense, it just wasn't true. He was given medication he had to pretend to take, and was recommended special care and therapy. But, because his mother had turned to drink shortly after his father's death, she was unable to look after him - hell, she was unable to look after herself - so he'd been placed in the institution because the people there would be able to help him get better. Of course, they couldn't, but Neal liked to let them think they could.

Sunnydale wasn't all that bad. It didn't have white padded rooms, and straitjackets like in the movies. The people here, they weren't as crazy as people assumed - they weren't all that dangerous or incurable. They weren't even sick to begin with, just troubled. They were all normal people, who just needed to little extra help, or someone to talk to. Sure, there were a few that needed a little more help than others - the people that woke up in the middle of the night, screaming and fighting unseen monsters, or those that paced and chanted, scribbling messages on the wall that only made sense in their head. But they came few and far between. The more common cases were that of depression, insomnia, bipolar, but they were still people, just like him.

"Sure you're okay? Is it to do with _them?"_ _  
_

M, after Ellen, was the only other person he'd told about his gift. He'd confessed everything to him during his first week at Sunnydale over a bottle of wine that had somehow come into M's possession. He'd learned M was capable of a lot more than most gave him credit for. Neal had picked the lock to the fire escape door under M's instructions and they'd climbed up onto the roof. The man had believed every word of Neal's right away, even the part where Neal had told him he was in here for the wrong reasons, that it was all a misunderstanding, which is what most of the people at Sunnydale tended to say. Sure, he'd had to spend weeks afterwards convincing the guy he wasn't an escaped alien from area 51, but M had believed in his gift instantly, and that was such a relief. Neal's talents had become a great interest of the paranoiac, and he asked all kinds of questions Neal couldn't answer - _Are there other's like you? Can you turn your powers off?_

_Do you like being able to see ghosts?_

"No, not a ghost thing. I'm fine." He moved a piece and captured one of M's knights. "You're turn."

M played every chess move as though a single mistake would cause the world to fold in on itself. He would spend ages studying the pieces, retracing his steps and working out all possible angles before even considering moving a piece. It was a reason why their games took days to complete. He said chess was a expression of your soul - that two thirds of the game was understanding your inner self while the other third was moving the pieces. He took chess way too seriously.

"Remember, mon frere, chess is more important than knowledge."

"I'm pretty sure that wasn't what Einstein said," Neal raised a quizzical eyebrow, though his friend's endless selection of quotes - and misquotes - had become the norm for him, and he was getting better at guessing the authors.

"Maybe not what he _said_ , but only those in tune with the eternal wanderers of the spiritual plane know that's what he _meant_."

"You're not psychic, M," Neal said for what felt like the millionth time. Every since he had told the man about his gift, M held some belief that if he spent enough time with Neal,  he would catch the gift the same way one would catch a cold.

"That's what I want you to believe."

Neal could see he was already losing this discussion, so he pointedly nodded towards the board to remind his friend of their game.

It had taken Neal ages to convince M to even come near the chess board, which belonged to the hospital, and therefore could be used by anyone fancying a game. M hadn't wanted to be in the same room as it if the board had been touched by outsiders. He said it was because it could be contaminated with poisons in a secret attempt to assassinate him, or be riddled with listening devices placed there by the government (who M had said were always watching) in an attempt to locate and terminate anyone who knew the moon landing was a fake.

That's pretty much why M was here.

While M was carefully and strategically plotting the move that could cause the end of human existence, Neal took the time to look around the large room that was the main socializing area, to see who was there, and who was _there,_ but both the living and the dead had barely moved since the last time he'd looked away from their table.

M looked up to see Neal's gaze elsewhere. "Is there anyone here?" he asked, looking around with him. He didn't need to clarify who he was talking about.

Neal's eyes snapped back and he grinned, he would be lying if he said he didn't like showing off his talents just a tiny bit. He nodded over to the large sofa in the center of the room. "See the guy sat on the sofa over there? The one with the book? There's a woman sat next to him, roughly the same age - maybe a wife? Possibly sister...she's smiling at him. She's been to visit him twice this week, I think she's earthbound because she doesn't want to pass on until she knows he can cope with losing her..."

Earthbound spirits - as he'd pieced together from his numerous trips back and forth from the library when he was younger - were spirits that hadn't crossed over the other side and remained here because they had - as cliché as its sounds - unfinished business. And, as he'd learned himself, they also tended to hang around places or loved ones that had meant something to them in life, that they were familiar with. It made sense, they had to be afraid and uncertain, especially if they'd died suddenly and didn't know how to find that better place, how to find the light, so to speak.

Some ghosts were convinced he could bring them back to life, but unfortunately his powers fell short there. But they did always seem to have a favor to ask, something they needed him to tell someone, or that they needed his help to work out how they'd died, or who had killed them because nobody else could help them, which is why Neal tried his best to avoid most of them. Fortunately for him, ghosts didn't always know he could see them, so as long as he pretended he couldn't, he could carry on his own life mostly undisturbed. 

"Anyone else?"

"Over by the window, there's a young girl, teenager, staring outside. Oh wait...she's crying. I haven't seen her here before. Other than that, it's pretty quiet for once."

M blinked owlishly through his wide glasses, contemplating Neal. "I don't know how you do it."

Neal shook his head. "I don't either."

\---

Mozzie. M's real name is Mozzie.

He'd told Neal the night they'd broke out of the institution. It was just coming up to Neal's third year. Mozzie had been there longer, but how long he wouldn't say. Throughout their stay at Sunnydale, Mozzie had taught Neal everything he knew - from simple pickpocketing to planning and executing a con. He'd taught Neal how to blend in, to be the person nobody ever thinks to look for and how to charm people, tell them what they wanted to hear. Mozzie had also helped Neal make the most of his natural abilities with paint, teaching him about the world's greatest artists, about how to perfect his own work, and even better - how to copy the work of other's. He'd taught Neal about class, and style. About the finer things in life.

Mozzie had given the kid everything he needed to make a life for himself and then unleashed him on the world. His own creation. He'd also gained a trusted friend and ally.

Neal had been able to rewrite himself, to become the person he wanted to be, and there was nothing in his way to stop him. The whole world had become his oyster. Against Mozzie's advice, Neal had kept his name. Changed his last name, enough to assume a completely new identity, but his first name was the only thing he had left to connect himself to his past. Though it had been grisly, it was still part of him and he couldn't forget that. But now, now he was Neal Caffrey, conman extraordinaire, ready to take on the world and show the world what he could do.

The first con they'd successfully pulled together, Neal had posted his cut of the profits to his mother's address in an unmarked envelope with a Canadian stamp. He'd hoped it would be enough for her to turn her life around, to stop the drink, but that was the last time he'd figuratively contacted her so whether she did, he would never find out. He and Mozzie both agreed, fresh start, no ties to the people they used to be.

Neal had been in his element, so much so that he almost forgot about his abilities.

But they couldn't keep living the high life without being grounded back into reality at some point. They were criminals, and Neal knew that would eventually have dire consequences. But Neal had almost managed a good two decades before his wild life caught up to him, and four years for bond forgery was a pretty sweet deal, considering there was nothing tying him to all his other crimes other than suspicion.

The agent that caught him, Peter Burke, couldn't have been a more worthy opponent. Neal could almost say he was proud to be beaten by him in their spectacular game of cat and mouse, despite it taking three years with many, many close encounters all across the globe. It was a good game well played, but he'd lost and was now facing the consequences of that loss.

A loss that meant four long, miserable years in a Supermax prison.


	2. New Beginnings

Prison.

Over the course of the next four years, Neal had learned that prison wasn't all that different from Sunnydale for several reasons: If you kept your head down you were left alone, everyone inside denied the reasons why they were put there, and Neal could use his gift to make allies where he needed them. Of course, Neal couldn't exactly conjure up the people he wanted to speak to - it wasn't exactly dial-a-ghost - but if he did happen to bump into a late friend of an inmate, he made sure to pass a messages on. He learned very quickly that the inmates in Supermax weren't as susceptible to his gift as the patients in Sunnydale, so when he started receiving funny looks and the occasional punch in the gut he kept quiet about it and looked for a new tactic.

Most of the dead folk in prison were, unsurprisingly, previously inmates themselves. Which of course, meant that Neal always had company and someone to talk to when the lights went out for the night and he found he couldn't sleep.

Neal's favourite to talk to was a serial art thief known only as Chase - a pleasant coincidence that meant the two had much in common whenever he appeared for a chat. One particularly gloomy night when he was pining for real company and longing for the feel of freedom at it's finest, Chase told him a story. 

Chase was originally born in Africa. Kenya to be exact, and sometime in the eighteenth century, at the peak of the Atlantic slave trade. He was taken as a young adult from his homeland to Europe - the fabled 'New World' - and forced into domestic slavery, working for many years in a large country manor along with several other African slaves. They weren't mistreated, but Chase was a free spirit imprisoned in a golden cage - like Neal he longed for a life with no boundaries, to live to his potential.

In his time as a slave, Chase had learned to pick the family's grand safe, and one night he fled the house and his life in chains with all the silver he could carry, assuming a new identity and going on to travel the world. He made a living by stealing artwork from those practising slave labour, and used the money to buy the freedom of other slaves. When he stole the silver on the night that changed his life forever, he replaced the contents of the safe with round white pebbles from the garden. So after that, whenever he stole a piece, he would leave behind a white pebble which then became his trademark signature.

Chase was eventually caught and hanged for his crimes, on the same grounds the super max was built upon.

Neal would spend hours with Chase discussing their greatest heists, and Chase took it upon himself to teach Neal his native tongue, so not only did he always have company, he could learn conversational Swahili at the same time. In the four years he spent in prison, he never managed to get Chase to cross over, but he knew if he did he probably wouldn't have made it through the system with his mind intact. Chase's story's were what kept him together when his cell felt too small or he awoke in blind panic after the monsters of his past clawed their way into the present.

It didn't take long for everyone to believe he was off his rocker, what, with sitting in his cell taking to himself at night. But quite frankly Neal was used to it, and found it made people stay far away from him, effectively keeping him out of harms way. Neal quickly adapted it as a sure-fire defence mechanism. In four years he never had one incident on record.

Unfortunately, romance got in the way of things, and Neal being a follows-his-heart romantic ended up slamming another four years onto his sentence.

Her name was Kate, he'd fallen head over heels for the her after meeting her in the middle of a con, deeply in love before he even knew what hit him. One of his biggest cons yet, and he would have walked away with nothing if it meant he could have her. Kate was Neal's creation, just like he was Mozzie's - he'd passed on his own knowledge to her after a man called Adler had destroyed their lives, he'd picked her up when she had nothing and given her a new life, like Mozzie had given him.

He never told Kate about his past, or his gift. She didn't know about what he saw - there had never been a right moment to tell her, and he didn't want to lose what he had gambling it on the chance she would believe him and not walk out of his life. That didn't stop her from doing so anyway, and when she walked out on him in prison he had already broke out after her before he realized what he'd done, or just how much doing so would change his life.

\--

He'd spent three long, brutal years chasing 'James Bonds' - the man who had infuriated yet captivated him in every way. Now, Peter found himself stood in a prison reception at 7:00 on a Sunday morning, signing papers for said man to be placed into his care with only ankle jewellery to keep him grounded. He couldn't say what had changed his mind when Caffrey had broached the subject of work-release after that stupid stunt he'd performed got him another four years. And for what? A girl? Just when he thought he understood him, the kid did something like that.

He had to admit, it was a damn impressive escape, one that could have made Neal Caffrey disappear from the map for good, yet Peter had found him in a cheap apartment less than a couple of miles away, clutching an empty bottle of wine like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He'd never seen that side of Neal, and he never wanted to see it again.

Peter fully expected him to run at the first opportunity, but somehow that didn't deter him from signing the contract. Waiting in the reception for the inmate felt strangely like starting school all over again - the same feeling of apprehension pooling in the pit of his stomach. Or like the day he and his wife adopted Satchmo, except this time he was bringing home much more than a puppy. That could pick locks, forge art, and speak eight languages.

"You here for Caffrey?" Peter hadn't realized he was so preoccupied with his thoughts until he looked up to see a prison guard stood in front of him. He must have missed the question, but the guard continued anyway. "Call me Bobby, my rounds go through his cell block. Word on the block says the FBI's taking him on, you're Agent Burke right? The one that caught him the first time?"

"Twice actually." Peter didn't care if he was boasting. He'd worked damn hard to achieve that. He shook the hand the man offered.

"He's a good kid. Smart. Though I'd've thought he would be a bit of a handful for the feds to take on, what with-" the man raised a hand, tapping his temple.

Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"

Bobby paused in thought, unsure how to address the topic. "Well, he's 'armless and all, but I guess he's not exactly 'all there', if you know what I mean. Don't know if it's being in prison that's done it, but I guess if he's useful to 'ya..."

Peter's face must have portrayed his confusion, because the man cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "He talks to himself. A lot. I've heard him have entire conversations with himself, it keeps the other inmates up at night. And he gets these real bad nightmares too. Keeps his head down though, and I make sure to keep an eye on him, but in here he's 'sorta known for being a little..." Bobby trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. "Look, I better go, work starts in five. He should be out in a minute, final checks and all. Nice meetin' 'ya." The man began to head down the hall before Peter could ask anymore questions, so he filed away that knowledge to address later.

Sure enough, Caffrey turned the corner a few minutes later, dressed as as smartly as one could wearing the same suit he was put away in.

"Let me see it."

 Neal lifted up his trouser leg to show Peter the anklet, before continuing his casual saunter over.

"It's not too tight is it?" Peter asked, because as much as he wanted to assert a not-to-be-messed-with first impression, he did still care about Neal's welfare, and not just because it was his job.

 "Well, you know, I guess it's manageable but I think it would be even better if we just left it off." The trademark grin glued to his face seemed to somehow put Peter at ease. It usually meant trouble, but somehow it made Neal easier to deal with. And it cleared the room of any tension.

A happy Caffrey was much better than the melancholic wreck he'd found in that apartment.

Peter smiled back. "Nice try kiddo, but you wanted it, now you have to deal with it. Come on, my car's outside," he gestured with his head to the door, and the two made their way out and across the tarmac at the front of the prison.

Neal came to a dead halt halfway, eyes narrowed, making Peter stop and turn to face him. Bobby's words were still floating around his head, but he'd known Neal for years and he was the most sane guy he knew. It couldn't be true. He hoped it wasn't, because Peter could barely cope around normal people, so he doubted he'd be anything other than useless in this situation.

"You okay?" he said hesitantly, eyes narrowed in a serious expression, but with a bit of fear creeping in around the edges.

"Is that a new suit?"

Peter's face visibly fell in relief, and he shot the man a hard look. He knew Neal enough to know the he knew full well it wasn't a new suit, but asking the question was indirectly insulting Peter's fashion choices.

"No it's not, and I like this suit. Now move."

Peter thought he heard Neal chuckle to himself, but it could have been the wind.

\--

The car journey was silent, but it wasn't an awkward silence. Neal didn't want to start up conversation, so Peter gave him the time he needed to adjust while he listened to the radio. But of course, because it was Neal's life goal to get on Peter's nerves, he didn't stay quiet for long.

"I don't like this song."

"Tough, I do."

"This being my first day out of prison and all, I think I should get to choose the channel."

"Neal-"

"Can't we listen to the news then?"

"No Neal."

"News is good for you. You get to learn all about what's happening around you."

"I don't need to know, I have a newspaper waiting at home for that."

"What about Jazz?"

"What?"

"Do you like Jazz?"

In the end, Neal got to choose the channel. Peter promised himself he would start being tougher on him tomorrow.

\--

About half an hour later, Peter had turned off the motorway into a fast food car park.

"What are we doing?" Neal turned from looking out the window to cock his head curiously.

"Eating. I need to set some ground rules and you're probably more likely to listen to me after I've fed you so let's go."

Neal was more touched than he should have been by the simple gesture, but he said nothing as he got out of the car and headed after Peter who was already crossing the car park.

"Okay, I'll order food, go find a table." Peter instructed once Neal had caught up. Neal chose a window seat in the corner, giving him a full view of the restaurant. Good for people watching, because he didn't want anything to catch him off guard. The last thing he needed was for Peter to ask questions on his first day with the man.

All Neal really wanted was go home and have the night to recuperate, put his smile on right and perfect the illusion of sanity. Of course, he was perfectly sane, but he needed more than himself to believe that if he wanted to remain out of prison.

Which reminded him, he didn't even have a home. In fact, Peter hadn't discussed accommodation at all since he left prison. He made a note to ask when Peter got back.

He took a good look around the restaurant, trained eyes filtering the perfectly lively families sat at the other tables, from the dead lingerers. Not many. He watched a man in a cleaners uniform dragging a mop across the floor, before he walked through the wall into the car park, promptly disappearing.

This was going to be much harder than he thought.

Neal's eyes flicked back to Peter's seat to see a man sat there, and because ghosts didn't tend to warn you when they simply popped into existence, Neal couldn't help but flinch, rather noticeably. No matter how many times you see it, you never get used to it, or prepare for it. The man looked only slightly younger than Neal, with dark brown hair slicked back with product but still rather bedraggled. His eyes were glazed with loathing and general hate for humanity. The kind of ghost Neal tended to avoid. Neal regained his composure and looked down at his hands.

"I need you to leave..." he whispered.

The man didn't leave though, and he wouldn't say anything to Neal. He just kept staring, with a look that sent shivers up Neal's spine and clawed at his stomach. He looked like he was studying Neal, trying to figure something out, or form an opinion.

"Sorry that took so long, here," Peter sat down in the seat just as the ghost disappeared, placing down a tray of food. Neal looked around the room, face paled a little, but the ghost was nowhere to be seen.

"Thanks," Neal reached for his burger, mentally brushing off the strange encounter.

"Everything good?" Peter seemed to sense his unease, following Neal's gaze out into the room.

"Yeah, fine. I've been meaning to ask, where exactly am I staying now that I'm working for you? You don't strike me as the type of guy to drop me off on the roadside to fend for myself," it wasn't his smoothest distraction technique but Peter didn't seem to notice.

Peter began to speak, but suddenly the man was there again, stood on Peter's left, and if you've ever tried to listen to two conversations at once, it's pretty impossible.

"Always be looking over your shoulder, Caffrey..." The man's voice was low and venomous. In fact, his whole persona resembled that of a snake. "It's all a game, you know? They have you right where they want you, and just when you begin to trust them...bam!" Neal's hand jerked a little on the table. "He's lying to you. He doesn't care. You think you're his first CI? He'll use you until you're no longer an asset to the FBI then that's when he'll get rid of you. Sweep you under the rug. That's what he did to me. You think he cares but he doesn't. He killed me, Caffrey! His own CI, and he'll kill you too. Ask him if you don't believe me. Ask him about what he did to Marcus. Don't let him fool you-"

"-greatest but I'm sure you can hack it."

Neal looked back to Peter, to see Peter studying him, and not doing a brilliant job at hiding his concern. He looked back to the left but the ghost had left just as quickly as it arrived.

"Neal?"

"I'm uhm, I'm just gonna...I'll be back in a sec," Neal stood up before Peter could continue, making his way over to the toilets and almost stumbling through the door. Looking in the mirror, he didn't realize how pale he'd become. Too bad he was trying to fit in with the living, because right now he looked very at home with the dead.

"So much for acting normal Neal, now he thinks you've got a screw loose." Neal muttered to himself, leaning down and splashing some cold water over his face. What the hell was that about? He'd had some crazy encounters before, but that pretty much topped the list. One rule he'd learned to live by though, is that not all ghosts tell the truth. Sometimes it's not always deliberately, depending on when and how they'd died, details often became hazy. FBI agents don't just go around killing for fun, and Peter was hardly psycho material.

Neal put it to the back of his mind, straightened up his tie, and went to go find his handler.

"Sorry about that, must've been something I ate this morning. And nerves. I'd be lying if I said this was an easy adjustment."

"No problem..." Peter didn't hide his disbelief, but he didn't push the matter further. "Look, don't force yourself to eat it, the FBI's paid for it. I'll take you home, you can get some rest. You start work tomorrow, but If I don't think you're up for it your staying in bed. You can work from home, I'm sure I can smooth things over at the office."

"I'm sure I'll be fine. Thanks Peter."

\--

"So that's why you took me for lunch..." Neal took in the disfigured front of the sleazy hotel. The corner sign may have once been lit up, but was now hanging off at the hinges, and missing the letter 'T'. "To sweeten the blow when you installed me in this place. If this building comes down on me in my sleep, am I entitled to compensation despite being a felon?"

"Aww come on, don't be like that. I'm on a tight budget with you here - What it's cost to house you on the inside, that's what they're giving me to work with. If you can convince the Marshals you deserve a bigger budget-"

Peter silenced himself after taking one look at Neal's broadening smile. "On second thoughts, scrap that, that's exactly what you'd do."

"What about clothes? You're looking at my entire wardrobe here," Neal spread his arms, then let them fall heavily to his sides.

Peter handed him a twenty. "There's a thrift shop down the road. I'll stop by to pick you up tomorrow. Unless you're still sick I want you ready at six on the dot."

Neal forced a smile but it fell flat. "Great." _Note my enthusiasm._

Peter turned away, but then he stopped himself. "Look, Neal..."

Neal raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had a feeling this was where the questioning started. He wasn't wrong.

"Are you sure you're alright? I mean, back there in the restaurant, something got to you. I don't know what it was but - look, I'm pretty bad at this sort of thing. But if this is going to work, I need you to be able to trust me, and tell me if there's anything wrong. Okay?"

Neal thought he'd take a wild chance, "Did someone say something to you this morning? You've been treading lightly around me all day. Nothing happened in prison, if that's what you want to know. I mean it."

"No, no it's not about that..." Peter was right, he really wasn't good at this. "Someone told me your behaviour in prison was...unique. I just want you to know that if there's something you need to talk about...The bureau would cover any costs for-"

"You think I'm crazy?"

"No! No. It's just-"

"Peter, relax okay? It was just a ruse to keep everyone off my back. Put it this way, nobody thinks twice about picking on the looney. It worked better than just keeping my head down. I'm fine, honestly."

"So it was a con?"

"It fooled you," Neal's eyes twinkled to match his smile, and Peter's relief was visible.

"Yeah, good. Yeah. So see you tomorrow okay?"

"I'll be waiting. Oh and Peter," Neal called after the agent, who stopped and looked back.

"We've just had out first moment."

Peter rolled his eyes, getting into his car. Neal waited until he was out of sight before allowing the smile to slip. He'd handled that pretty well, but Neal couldn't afford to slip up again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, Chase is purely a figment of my imagination. Any constructive feedback is appreciated as I haven't wrote a WC chapter by chapter before, so I have no idea how I'm doing ^^
> 
> More Mozzie in store next chapter as we learn something new about our favourite paranoiac.


	3. Old Friends and New

Somehow, even before he stepped foot into the vintage inspired thrift store around the corner, Neal knew he'd be able to make this twenty dollar bill stretch further than most would be able to. At the end of the day, partially reformed or not, he was still a conman and he'd gotten more with much less.

The suit he wore was at the lower end of his usual attire, but still more expensive than Peter's best suit so he put that as a plus. He straightened his tie and smoothed out his shirt, tidying his hair as best as he could with his fingers before striding confidently into the shop. Entrances are the most significant part of a con - if you made a strong entrance, people's imaginations would do the rest. Mozzie taught him that.

He strode casually past the clerk and headed towards the rack of tasteful suits, all out of his price range - but the vantage point gave him an opportunity to survey the shop and see if there were any opportunities he could utilize.

As if fate had drawn one out for his benefit, an elegantly dressed middle aged women came into the store, depositing bundles of _very_ nice suits onto the front desk. "I've come to donate these."

Neal's smile tugged at the corners, but before he had a chance to go over, a deep voice resonated behind him. "I see you've noticed my wife's suit collection. You have excellent tastes if I might say."

Neal pivoted around to reply, hesitating once he realized it was 'wife' in past tense. He instantly felt bad for attempting to manipulate a widow - he was a con artist but he still had morals, which put him at the other end of the spectrum away from the serial killers, rapists and God knows what else he'd had to share a cell block with for four years.

The man was tall, African American, and dressed to equally high standards in a lavish suit and the kind of vintage fedora Neal would die for.

"I've been waiting years for the women to take them out of storage, there's no use holding on to them now I can't wear them, but she's not really one for letting go."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Neal almost offered a hand to shake but then corrected himself. "I'm Neal. Neal Caffrey. If you don't mind me asking, how did you know I could see you?"

"Name's Byron. And well, I didn't, but I'm the type of guy that believes anything is possible. I figured if I introduced myself to enough people, eventually one of them would turn around," he chuckled, and it was low and hearty, the kind that warmed you through like a roaring fire on a winter's night. "And if you don't mind me saying, it takes a con to know a con."

Neal canted his head only slightly with pride. He had a legacy to live up to after all. "They really are amazing," he turned his head back towards the lady at the counter, eyes falling back on the selection of pricey clothing. "But right now, in my current situation they're a little out of my price range," he held up the crumpled bill in his hand, his smile pulling tight.

"You seem like a man who appreciates a fine suit as much as I do - did. I don't think they could go to a better home, I was always hoping they would fall into good hands. Go introduce yourself to my wife, June, I'm sure she'd agree with me."

"Thank you."  
  
Neal turned away to head over to the lady - June - who was laying out the suits at the front while the clerk examined them.

"Those are fantastic," Neal didn't have to fake his awe as he took a closer look at them over the women's shoulder.

"They belonged to my late husband-"

"Byron." The name slipped out before Neal could stop himself, but the women's eyes lit up with fondness and surprise.

"Oh, Did you know him?"

Neal paused. "Well, not exactly. I'm...psychic, a little, and sometimes these things just sorta roll out of my head before I can stop them. I'm terribly sorry," Psychic? Where did that come from. Well, he could work with that, he just hoped she didn't think he was one of those cheap cold readers who preyed on the vulnerable.

However she only looked interested, "Byron was never fond of that sort of thing, but I used to get readings from a man he played poker with on weekends."

Neal smiled in lighthearted understanding, picking up a suit jacket that had caught his eye, eyes widening at the familiar label. "This is a Devore," he looked to her for permission before trying on the blazer.

"Yes, he won it from Sy himself."

"Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?" his eyes flickered briefly over to where Byron stood, eyes shining from under his tilted fedora.

"He certainly did, and so did I."

"You know..." Neal knew he was pulling at ties now, but she'd proved she was hardly skeptic of the paranormal. "I could try give you a reading, I don't really practice so I can't promise it would be anything good. It's more mediumship than anything, sometimes I can-" he paused, looking for a way to approach this. He couldn't tell her he could see her husband stood behind her. "-communicate with the deceased. I could see if I can reach your late husband?"

Turns out, he did manage to pass a message on from June's late husband. And also, June had a _whole_ closet of those suits, and a spare guest room. Their agreement was mutually beneficial.

\---

Neal never thought he'd get so much pleasure out of watching Peter squirm the next day when he came to collect him for work. He didn't have to say anything to watch Peter's expression slowly darken, and of course, he didn't mean to look _that_ smug.

There wasn't a slow moment in Neal's first day as a consultant, even he'd only just been introduced to the case. It was nice being able to watch how things worked from the lawful side for a change - he could never observe the logistics behind it while he was running from the FBI. But by home time, Neal was more than ready for a quiet, relaxed evening and an early night.

Of course, when he let himself in to the grand house and heard a throat clear from the darkened dining room, his night could never be that simple.

Grabbing a cane from the stand in the hallway as a just-in-case, Neal warily approached the large polished table to watch a wine glass roll from one end to the other. He lunged forward just in time to catch it in one hand as it rolled off the edge.

"They say that shadows of deceased ghosts do haunt the houses and the graves about, of such whose life's lamp went untimely out, delighting still in their forsaken hosts."

Neal flicked on a light.

"The hell, Moz? Sitting in the dark quoting sixteenth century poetry?"

Neal threw a look at the balding man in the chair at the other end of the table, turning to retrieve a bottle of wine from the wine rack. June had more than once told him he was free to help himself, but he would be sure to replace it tomorrow out of good will.

"Is that your way of telling me to go into the 'light?'" Mozzie made sure to punctuate his disbelief of the concept with quotation marks in the air. He liked to be dramatic.

Neal shook his head and poured himself a glass, taking the seat opposite.

"Just _one_ glass? You are a terrible host."

"You can't drink, Moz, I've already told you that. Being dead and all?" Neal felt like he'd spoken those words a thousand times.

Oh yeah, that's right, Neal had never actually known Mozzie when he was alive.

He'd met his spirit in Sunnydale and since then, he'd just sorta stuck around. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He wouldn't cross over simply because being himself, he liked to rebel against the natural order of things. Mozzie had marveled at someone finally being able to see him, and Neal had gained a friend. It didn't matter that he was dead.

He still found Neal's gift to be incredible though - most people assume all ghosts can see each other just like the living can but it doesn't always work that way. Some earthbound ghosts can see the rest of the earthbound dead, some can't, the same way not everyone can sing or ride a bike.

Mozzie was stuck somewhere in between frequencies like a faulty radio, because obviously he couldn't just be a normal ghost.

The little guy (though he detested that name) was the brains behind every operation - he would come up with the cons and investigate the location beforehand, whereas Neal would do the physical work. It gave his friend a sense of purpose and belonging, and for Neal, well, it was handy to have someone looking over your shoulder for you, especially when said person had no chance of being spotted. Probably a reason Neal had gotten away with so much to date.

"One can dream, mon frere, one can dream. Without leaps of imagination or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities."

Neal sighed, fetching another wine glass and filling it with ribena, placing it in front of his friend.

"That's not what I-" Moz began.

"Use your imagination then. You're not going to be drinking it so it doesn't have to actually _be_ wine." Neal smirked and leaned back into his chair, watching his friend sit back with a huff. It reminded him of a similar conversation in Sunnydale, when Moz had insisted that Neal left him half of that first bottle of wine they 'shared' despite him never being able to drink it. Dead people can't drink.

It's not that Mozzie refused to believe he was dead, he just liked to pretend he wasn't. But In all the time he'd known him, Mozzie had never told Neal how or when he'd died, and Neal just never brought it up.

"Besides, Moz, I've only just met June and I don't want her to think I'm an alcoholic. Plus it's her wine going to waste, no hard feelings. It's bad enough me sat here talking to myself anyway. Which reminds me, now that I'm out of prison your going to have to be more inconspicuous. What with Peter and all..."

"You haven't told the suit?"

Neal shook his head. It was bad enough the agent already wanted to meet the source of his case-related information. He didn't know how to explain that only he could see the people who gave him the rumours and hearsay that had helped to build their knowledge of the case so far. That was a first class ticket back to an institution, and that chapter of Neal's life was closed a long time ago.

"I don't think Peter's the believing type."

"Skeptic suit, got it. Want me to haunt him? I could probably change that for you?"

"No, Moz, I don't think that's necessary."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I made Mozzie a ghost, shoot me. But did you see that coming? A late decision, but It just seemed to make sense, Moz being the little paranoid, mischievous ghost that haunts people and generally causes as much trouble in spirit as he did when he was alive.


	4. Odd Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, already working on new chapter.

There were still days where Neal awoke expecting to see whitewashed walls, locked windows, and cheery nurses coming into his room with magazines and mandatory medication. The days where he awoke feeling disjointed and scrabbling for purchase on reality, he had to remind himself that he was no longer in Sunnydale - his old life was the past and now he was free.

Or at least, free of one prison. He seemed to go about his life jumping from one form of imprisonment to another, all the same except for variation in scenery. This prison was his largest yet though, two miles was excruciatingly small, but he could make it work.

What was it that Mozzie said? From the frying pan into the fire?

Neal found his stay in supermax easier to forget than Sunnydale and prison was...well, prison.

Today was one of those aforementioned stop-freaking-out-you're-no-longer-an-oddball days, and when Neal awoke expecting to feel the dull ache of a hard, worn mattress under his back he was greeted with six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. He'd barely known June a month, but he already felt at home in the spacious, vintage apartment, and he couldn't have asked for a better landlady.

She had been so fascinated by his gift, even more so when he'd been able to tell her the history of her nineteenth century mansion thanks to the lingering occupants attached to certain rooms and objects within June's establishment by their spiritual energy and stubbornness to go elsewhere. For instance, the grand piano in her living room used to be owned by aspiring Dutch poet Frans Lanier, who died in a house fire in the late 1800's. The fire destroyed everything of his poetry, and the man's spirit carried this burden in so much negative energy that Neal had chills every time he appeared. All the raw emotion could be felt by Neal, often dampening his mood, so the pianist was one spirit Neal preferred to avoid.

His favourite haunter however was a young girl named Emmy. She lived in the house long before June came to own the place, and couldn't have been more than six or seven when she died. She didn't remember how. Neal had never caught more than a glimpse of her - he could hear her voice sometimes, or the faint echo of mischievous laughter when he entered his apartment, but the closest he had gotten was movement out of the corner of his eye that vanished before he could turn around.

He learned rather quickly that Emmy took great delight in hiding his stuff, and only his stuff, and it became a regular morning ritual for him to have to hunt for his socks or tie pin before work.

Just as Neal was putting on his shoes, his phone rang. Knowing it was Peter, it gave him great satisfaction to let it ring a few times before he answered it. "This is your humble CI speaking, how may I help you?"

"Quit fooling around Neal, do you know I've been waiting outside for ten minutes?"

Peter wasn't a morning person, Neal had noticed. Not that Neal was any less inclined to wind him up, in fact it probably made it more fun.

"I hadn't noticed no. I would have been ready sooner but my hat's missing," Neal replied, bending over and peering under the bed as he said this. He thought he heard a giggle but it may have been his imagination.

"Funny. They don't let you wear hats in prison you know."

Ah Peter, an infinite fountain of humour with prison as the only punchline.

"Aw Peter, you love me really," Neal smiled, hoping some of that smugness would worm its way down the phone. "I'll be out in two."

\---

Peter sighed and clicked off the phone. Hell would freeze over the day Neal Caffrey was ever on time for work. But he tolerated it to a certain extent, only because he and Caffrey were making a real duo in the department, and his contributions to the cases were substantial. Hell, they were brilliant, but he wouldn't tell Neal that - his ego was taking up too much office space already.

His contributions were bordering suspicious, some of the things he came out with - as remarkable and seemingly infinitely talented he was - the con simply couldn't have known. Either that, or he was on a personal level with every criminal they investigated in the entirety of New York. He knew Neal was a people person, but even that had to have it's limits.

The car door slammed and said con plopped into the seat beside him, this time no suave, cartoonical fedora atop his mass of curls.

"Still no hat?" Peter tried for sympathetic but it was more inwardly gratifying.

"Actually yes, Peter, but it turns invisible on Tuesdays," Neal's sarcastic and slightly bitter remark reminded Peter that his hats were a touchy subject.

"Probably a ghost," Peter offered light-heartedly, pulling away from the house. Despite his eyes being on the road, he could still see Neal visibly tense for a second, before his calm and collected default setting returned.

"Yeah, probably."

The car slowed as it approached traffic lights, and Peter took the moment to glance back over at his CI. "Hey come on, you don't really believe in any of that crap do you?"

Neal was facing the window, most likely an alternative defensive stance now that he had no fedora to hide his features, leaving him openly vulnerable. "Anything's possible," he responded carefully, deciding it was ominous enough to answer the question without really answering. "Will there be mortgage fraud today?"

Peter sensed the change of subject but let it slide. He knew how much Neal hated those cases, but he needed to realise white collar crime wasn't all about flashy criminals stealing flashier stuff. "I could make sure there is if you're asking,"

"I think one day without won't kill me."

"Good, because you're gonna love this case."

\---

Turns out, Peter was right, the new case was proving to be pretty interesting. Their guy was Samuel Lorenzo, or, as he'd quickly been dubbed, The Magpie. Couldn't hold a candle to James Bonds, but not all FBI given nicknames could be as cool as his. Lorenzo dabbled in rare gems, or rather, he stole them. The shinier the better. They didn't have much on him yet apart from a basic profile and only rumours of his hits, so it was a shot in the dark. Interpol had been chasing the guy for a good few years, so they happily handed responsibility onto the FBI when it was rumoured he was in New York.

After the briefing, Neal wandered back to his desk to work on his contributions to the case, which were - if he didn't know the criminal already - ask around his contacts and dig up information so they could put a name to a place and hopefully gain a leg to stand on. Which meant finding Mozzie, which was always a task, because how could you find someone who could be anywhere at any time?

If ghosts had cellphones, life would be much easier. Heck, all ghost's should be issued tracking anklets like he had.

Distracted by his research, he didn't notice he was being watched. Not by Peter, or Diana or Jones, but someone only he could see. He was caught so off guard when he looked up, that he nearly knocked the mug of coffee off the edge of his desk.

It was the same ghost from the restaurant his first day out of prison. He'd quickly forgot about the incident after he didn't appear again, but seeing the disjointed shadow lingering by the glass doors of the office churned his stomach. He hadn't mentioned it to Moz either. After all, it wasn't his first odd encounter with a ghost, in fact if he told his friend about every weird dead guy he'd met the poor paranoiac would die of boredom. Pun intended. 

The crazed ghost's words were still floating around his head, the cold glint in his dead eyes, the way his words screamed out agony in every syllable. Some ghosts really disturbed him, and it was them that made his gift feel like a curse.

_He killed me Caffrey! His own CI, and he'll kill you too. Ask him if you don't believe me. Ask him about what he did to Marcus. Don't let him fool you..._

Neal glanced back up at Peter, but the agent had his head down in paperwork. By the time he looked back the ghost was gone. Seeing it was nearly lunchtime, he grabbed his coat and quickly headed towards the elevator, needing some fresh air and something to eat, that would probably put his mind at ease.

Why would Peter not mention he had a CI before him? The bitter ghost put him on edge, not because he was accusing Peter of being a cold blooded killer, but because there was a whole hidden chapter of Peter's life before Neal which was now affecting him.

Pausing at the elevator, he looked towards the agent. Their eyes met for a moment, and Neal wished he could trade his ghost seeing abilities for telepathy. Neal forced a grin, before stepping into the elevator and leaving the office behind him.

 


	5. Scavenger Hunt

Finding Mozzie...was easier said than done.

He checked the typical paranormal hotspots -  which meant every single derelict building within his two mile radius, along with the few buildings that weren't considered 'free game' to all ghosts, but had been claimed and fiercely guarded by Moz as his personal safehouses. Neal had pointed out he didn't need anywhere to hide if there was nobody looking for him, but the man had responded with an ominous "So you think," and had left it at that.

He left messages with the usual suspects that made up the majority of New York's hauntings, but ghosts were never obliged to be helpful. They frequently adopted an I'm-dead-so-why-should-I-care attitude and would engage Neal in a game of twenty questions before he could be mostly certain they would pass the message on. He checked the library on the south edge of his radius, where Moz and Neal's other ghost contacts had promised to leave messages should there ever be anything Neal needed to know. This mostly involved rearranging the books on the shelves in the 'Spiritual and Paranormal' section to leave Neal coded phrases, but he found nothing from his spirit sidekick. Noting his lunch hour could only stretch so far, he finally made a stop at the graveyard on his way back towards the FBI offices.

Yes, graveyard. Mozzie had a way of being poetically morbid.

He ambled down the ragged gravel path that tore through the centre of rows of marbled stone, idly scanning the names of the deceased. He didn't particularly like graveyards - they were a playground for the dead, and often full of fledgling ghosts, who were always scared and confused and radiating negativity. That would do nothing to settle the anxiety that had been gnawing at his stomach since his second encounter with his handler's former partner.

"I saw a mockingbird in the park."

Neal startled, eyes rapidly flicking across the outstretch of manicured grass even though he knew the voice before it had finished speaking. He instantly relaxed, but his friend had yet to grace Neal with his visual presence.

"Your supposed to ask how it died."

Neal flinched again when Mozzie materialised on the bench beside him, but passed it off as reaching for his phone. Materialising was the wrong word though - Mozzie didn't just fade gradually into existence in a plume of smoke. No, he just popped up whenever the hell he felt like it.

"We need to discuss new meeting terms, Moz, I can't be playing psychic scavenger hunts in my lunch hour."

"You're jumpy." The ghost observed, arms crossed across his stomach as he stared into space, as though he was reluctant to acknowledge Neal's presence.

"You know the whole, 'I can't be seen with you thing' only works when people can see you right?'"

"One must keep up appearances. What was it that so required my attention you had to miss out on a good lunch?" Moz was always abrupt when he sensed there was something wrong with his friend.

"First of all, I need you to ask around and see what you can dig up on a 'James Lorenzo'."

"The gem thief?"

"You know him?" It was a poorly phrased question, but Neal had learned that the paranoiac knew a lot more than he let on sometimes.

"Mutually. He hit a place I was casing. He's good, passed through five state of the art security cameras and disabled the heat and motion sensors. Didn't hit the displays though, went straight for the vault."

"Well, I need all you can find on him on your end, while I see what I can uncover myself."

"That's not all that's playing on your mind though."

Neal sighed, noting a text from Peter, most obviously asking of his whereabouts, despite him most likely knowing already. He made a mental note to invent a reason why he found eating lunch in a graveyard so gratifying before he got back. "Not exactly. I also need anything you can find on a 'Marcus', I don't know the last name but I think he was Peter's previous CI. We've had a couple of run-ins since I've been out of prison. He's dead, but he's holding a lot of resentment and an even larger grudge.

"I'll see what I can do."

Mozzie then vaporised as quick as he had appeared, and Neal stood, stretched his legs and headed back to where Peter was most likely boiling over.

After Neal turned the corner, Agent Jones took out his phone, from where he was stood behind a weather-worn oak tree. Peter picked up on the first ring. "Peter, It's Clinton. Yeah, I tailed him like you asked. Listen Boss...there's something you need to know."

\---

When Neal returned to the office, it was just as he left it. Diana was typing away at her computer - she acknowledged him with a nod, The probies were gossiping around the coffee machine, and Peter was up in the conference room, speaking to Jones. Neal headed that way, strolling casually through the door and dropping into a chair. Neal only interrupted meetings if they were either nothing personal, or about him. This time, he wasn't sure which.

Jones cleared his throat, and set down a case file he was holding. "I'll get back to you on the surveillance footage," he nodded to Neal in passing before making his leave.

Neal narrowed his eyes marginally, studying Peter the brief moment his attention was elsewhere. So it was about him, then.

"Sorry I'm late, lunch ran over," Neal offered. "But I've managed to dig up some interesting dirt on our Lorenzo guy from mutual friends."

This seemed to gain Peter's interest. He was still somewhat distracted though, studying Neal like an unsolved puzzle when he thought his CI wasn't looking. "Do I want to know who?"

Neal smirked, and that was enough for the agent to wave away the question. Peter perched on the edge of the table, and Neal began rattling off some of the things Mozzie had uncovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for making you wait so long. I've been so busy recently, but I'd never leave a story unfinished. A good few chapters to go yet, with h/c, angst and drama arriving soon. I'm hoping to post another chapter either today or tomorrow. Hope your all enjoying, your comments have been a delight to read.


	6. Skeletons

"A psych assessment?"

Neal's eyes widened at Peter, unable to hide his surprise at the request. As far as he could remember, he hadn't done anything to alert his colleague's suspicions, which meant Peter must have had him tailed. He felt let down. He hoped the older agent didn't also see the fear that flashed momentarily across his face as the word clawed up reminiscences of his unpleasant childhood. "I don't - why?"

Peter sighed, hands clasped together in front of his face from where he sat opposite his CI in the conference room. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of the whole situation. If it came down to it, he would trust Neal Caffrey with his life. The man had made many wrong decisions, but he knew that when it came to life and death, he would do the right thing. There was no doubt about it.

He wanted to believe that Neal was fine, really he did. But 'fine' people do not sit in graveyards for hours and talk to themselves. Though he had yet to see it himself, both Jones and Diana had reported it on several occasions when Neal was alone. It was becoming a cause for concern.

The day Jones came back with his findings, Peter had taken Neal's file home with him and had combed through every piece of evidence they had on him. But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find the root of the problem - as far as they knew, Neal hadn't been bereaved of anybody he was close to, and there was nothing in his file to indicate towards mental illness. But after all, Neal was only Neal after his eighteenth birthday, and before then was a whole new concept entirely. If something had happened that they didn't know about, it would have been before then.

The only trouble was, there was no delicate way of getting Neal to open up about his past. The issue was sensitive enough already.

Peter was trying to approach the subject without cornering Neal - because the last thing he wanted was for him to feel threatened, because his work release deal was going well outside of this newly arisen issue. He thought back to Neal's first day out of prison, with the situation in the restaurant. He'd put it down to anxiety at the time, because he didn't want to believe there was anything wrong with Neal Caffrey. People like him weren't designed with imperfections.

"This doesn't reflect on you," Peter began. Great, because that was a good start. "But in future circumstances, if you are going to go out in the field, I need to know you'll be able to handle it, just like I need to know with all of my agents. Psych evals are standard for working agents, to ensure they can handle the stress and toll that comes with the job. It's also the reason why they are required to have them after particularly bad cases, or in the rare cases of injury in the field. It doesn't say anything about you."

Peter hated lying to Neal. It wasn't as though what he was saying wasn't true, but it seemed wrong to hide to real reason behind small truths. But he didn't want to lose Neal's trust by showing doubt in him, or having him doubt himself. So by Neal believing the evaluation was for different reasons would ultimately be for his own good.

Neal had yet to speak, so Peter continued to fill the silence that hung blearily over the room. "I have every faith in you, Neal, but it's also my job to keep you safe. I know your talents are going to waste pouring over case files every day, and you could do great things out in the field just like you have been doing here. But If anything happened to you on my watch, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Do you understand that?"

Peter's voice had unwillingly softened into that careful tone he used on frightened victims or when trying to get a first time criminal to 'put the gun down'. He prayed it would show his care rather than his concern.

But Peter had seen Neal zone out at times, when his eyes would flick over to the corner in the middle of meetings, or something would startle him that wasn't really there. If something was affecting Neal, it was Peter's job to save him from it.

He wanted Neal to say something - argue back, hurl accusations, but instead he just sat there and stared, emotions too well disguised to allow Peter to see how he was taking it.

Before he could assure Neal it would be okay, the younger man stood up, pushed his chair back, and walked out of the room.

He wasn't buying it.

\---

Neal made a quick retreat to the men's room. If he had eaten lunch, it would have most likely been at the bottom of the toilet bowl. He clenched his fists to cease the shaking that had taken him so suddenly, holding one up to his face to try and calm his spiked anxiety.

He couldn't see a shrink. He wouldn't. He'd spent his whole childhood sat opposite one, and if the lines between his past and present became too blurred he'd start caving in on himself again. He'd spent his entire life building himself up, becoming a new person, burying his weaknesses so deep they would never see sunlight. He didn't want to be reminded of the past. He couldn't.

He also didn't want to disappoint Peter. He'd done that enough to people already. But he was stupid to think he could live a new life without people digging into his past. Taking the skeletons out of his closet.

If he refused the assessment, it would raise suspicions, but if he went and screwed it up well, that was worse. He also didn't exactly wish to add to his collection of childhood scarring. However, if he wasn't passed for fieldwork, they'd eventually decide he wasn't worth his cost, and would ship him back to prison.

He wasn't really worried about failing the test - he was perfectly sane so there would be nothing to doubt. He was however worried about having a full blown panic attack in a room with a shrink.

He knew one thing for certain though. The quicker he got through this, the quicker they could crack the Lorenzo case and Neal could deal with his dead stalker.

He could do this.

\---

The psychiatrist was a petite, optimistic but professionally serious blonde.

She was older than Neal, closer to fifty than forty, and wore her hair in a short bob that curled under at the ends. She wore a tight fitted smile, but was surprisingly friendly and kept strict formalities to a minimum.

She'd lead Neal into the small, cosy office, and told him he could sit where he wanted. He took the opportunity to claim the chair that was most likely for her, letting her sit on the sofa instead. Anything to gain control over the situation and break away from what was engraved in his memory after all those years of unpleasant conversations with professionals.

She didn't seem to mind though - she sat opposite him with a notepad in her lap while he sat arms folded. Defensive.

He had to give credit, the room was nothing like the room he sat in every other day with the Sunnydale psychiatrist, to discuss his 'progress' and 'rehabilitation'. It was tidy, but filled with personal additions that took away the feel of scrutiny, giving the room an overall homely facade. He presumed that was the idea.

He watched her watching him, letting her have the first move while he calculated.

"Neal, my name is Dr. Halldren, but you can call me Ann. First of all, is there anything you want to ask before we begin?"

First name basis, Neal observed. To get him to trust her, break initial barriers. He wanted to point out that her name rhymed with cauldron, but instead politely shook his head.

She straightened up, apparently getting down to business now pleasantries had been exchanged, at least from one end. "Now, Neal, do you understand why you're here? To assess your psychological state and determine you fit for fieldwork. How do you feel about that transition?"

Neal's eyes were elsewhere, flickering cautiously around the room. Her words were distorted by the voice of his previous psychiatrist, and suddenly the room wasn't the same as it was when he walked in, and the air was becoming thick. He really couldn't do this, he couldn't spend any more of his life living up to standards and avoiding judgement. He wasn't the frightened little kid from the mental hospital anymore, he was Neal Caffrey - conman extroadinaire and in no way, shape or form mentally unwell.

"I think you should have a drink of water, Neal. Neal, can you hear me?"

He felt a cool glass being pushed into his hands, and he gripped it tight, breathing heavily through his nose. When had breathing become so unnatural? His unsteady hands guided the glass up to his lips and he took a sip, then another, and that settled him enough that he could see the concerned but patient face of the women watching him, waiting.

"Feel better?"

He nodded, setting the glass down on the low coffee table that separated them. He loosened the top button of his shirt. "Sorry, I skipped lunch today and I guess I'm just a little nervous."

Dr. Halldren nodded, and though she didn't question his decision not to eat, he knew she'd filed it away. "Shall we start again?" She smiled, this time a gentle, comforting smile untainted by professional distance. "Remember, Neal, everything you say in here will stay between us, The only thing I'll be reporting on is my opinion of whether you will be fit for fieldwork with Agent Burke."

"And you don't look like the kind of women that would take a bribe." This seemed to amuse her greatly , but she replied with a definite "no."

"Now, Neal," she leaned forward, steadying the notepad on her lap. "Do you want to tell me a little about your deal with Agent Burke?"

That, he could do. That was easy. But he knew it always started with factual questions, to slowly ease you into the personal ones. He answered anyway, "I'm working off a four year sentence on a work release deal for the FBI. The terms of my agreement instate an electronic monitoring anklet with a two mile radius. I assist the FBI in solving cases with my various areas of expertise." He spoke the facts, almost clinically, but apparently it was enough.

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Well, I enjoy working with Peter. It beats prison."

"You don't want to go back to prison?"

"Of course not."

"What about your own opinion. Do you believe you're capable of assisting Peter out in the field?"

"Yes, definitely. I have the ability to assume new identities with ease, and can work calmly in pressurised environments. I believe I would be of great assistance undercover."

"Do you suppose there is anything that may hold you back from that? Any habits, tendencies, substance abuse, recent bereavement? Anything that may cloud your vision or judgement?"

"Bereavement?" Neal stopped suddenly, suspiciously examining the Doctor. He didn't like where this was going.

She cleared her throat. "As an example. How would you assess your ability to cope with grief?"

"I don't see how that's relevant." Neal folded his arms again, becoming instantly defensive. He watched the psychiatrist scribble down notes. She had her pad tilted so that he couldn't read it, but not at enough of an angle that it was obvious she was hiding them from him.

"If not grief, than stress. How do you usually deal with a stressful situation?"

"What are you implying?"

She sighed. "I'm just trying to establish a basis of your behaviour, to see if there is anything that could be addressed. Your file leaves a lot to the imagination, so as for what's happened in your life that may have lasting effects on your psychology, there isn't that much to go on. But I need you to work with me if we're ever going to come to a conclusion."

She paused, pouring herself a glass of water to equal his, which she set down on the table. She set her pad down, looking towards him, her expression torn. Neal held her stare confidently, refusing to break. This session mirrored his very first - It had taken at least a year of 'treatment' before he'd given his therapist anything useful to go on. He wasn't going to spill his life's story after one appointment. Dr Halldren pressed further, "What are you afraid of, Neal?"

_The fact that I'm different. The fact that I can see things nobody else can see and there's nobody I can go to, and not a damn thing I can do about it. The fact that my handler's dead CI won't leave me alone and wants me to believe Peter is a murderer. What else would I be afraid of ?_

Neal stared down at his hands, noticing how warm they were despite the temperature of the room being mild.

"Neal?" Dr Halldren prompted. She patiently twirled the pen in her hand.

"Well, I guess I'm afraid of-"

"Government cover-ups threatening to destroy the building blocks of humanity?" Mozzie supplied helpfully from where he was now sat next to the psychiatrist. Being dead, he had all the time in the world yet still chose to turn up at the most inappropriate times. His unwavering stare screamed _Don't tell them anything_. "I can't believe they sent you to a shrink."

"I fear what will happen if the FBI no longer finds me useful."

Mozzie sighed, a heavy, disappointed sigh. "Did you try offering her a Bribe?"

Dr Halldren mused over Neal's answer, tapping the pen to her lip. She was oblivious to the delusions of the third individual in the room. "You have a wide array of unique talents, Neal-"

"Some of which not even the suits have identified." Mozzie commented, looking between the two like the conversation actually included him.

"-and already I see you've made notable contributions to the cases you've been assigned to. Do you not think the FBI sees that?"

"Of course they won't, they're backstabbing-"

Neal cleared his throat, halting Mozzie mid sentence. He shot him a glare that didn't go unnoticed by the women. "I do believe I'm making a difference, but I think I would be able to achieve even more out in the field."

"And possibly get shot at. Or blown up. Or become vegetabled by a knock to the head. Or quite possibly a combination of-"

"That is," Neal interrupted, "If I have your approval," he gave the doctor his best winning smile. Mozzie grumbled something from beside her, but Neal was too fixated with her final opinion to hear it. He prayed she would decide quickly - Mozzie had turned his attention to her tumbler of water, as if he was trying to summon the willpower to tip the glass (he became restless easily and found great enjoyment in his abilities.)

"I'll need to have a discussion with Agent Burke, and we could do with continuing this for a couple more appointments until I have more to go on. But in my professional opinion I don't believe there is anything major outstanding that would hinder your performance out in the field. But from what I've gathered, you appear to have issues with trusting people, and reluctance to open up about your personal life. Unless that's just me."

"Just you," Mozzie answered with a nod of confirmation.

Neal wasn't sure whether to sigh with relief of hug Dr Halldren, so instead he just nodded and stood, shaking her hand and uttering his thanks. He stood and made his way to the door, giving her a last thankful smile, but eager as hell to get out of there.

Mozzie took the long route out, which meant walking through the Coffee table, and the chair, and finally through the wall, muttering something about psychiatrists and mind control in passing.


	7. Takedown

"All teams move in but do not enter the building. Team one take the north entrance, team two, east. I want every inch of this place surrounded but do not, I repeat do not enter the building until I get there, do you understand?"

Peter was adept at multitasking, Neal noticed, as he watched his handler yell orders into the radio - whilst still keeping his other hand on the wheel, and eyes on the road. Sure, it made Peter's already choppy driving a little more unbearable, but so far there had been no sudden breaks, and they were still within the speed limit, if only by decimals.

They were only a few blocks away from where the stakeout van was positioned, and where the teams were moving into place. With Neal's help, or more accurately because of Neal, they were able to get a location on the whereabouts of Lorenzo, and Peter had ordered a stakeout to confirm Neal's intel. According to the agents in SWAT they had a visual on their gem thief at the address Neal had provided, so now they were heading that way to arrest him, hopefully with little, preferably no resistance..

Neal was a little worried that Peter would want to know where this information was coming from. He had every right to be suspicious, after all, they had only been after the Magpie for less than a week, and despite only having heresay and rumours on the guy, Neal had been able to draw a plausible address seemingly out of thin air. It was only a matter of time before they started accusing him of being involved in the crimes, and Peter hadn't exactly said much to him today.

Of course, Neal would gladly offer a few names of his see all, know all informants - if it didn't make him look insane.

"Alright, we're here."

Neal glanced out of the window. The derelict building stood out stark against the relatively upmarket area it resided in. Though it wasn't the target of bricking or graffiti from today's youth, it was still clearly uninhabited, from the outside at least. Neal thought it was suspicious that a criminal, who had remained off radar for so long and was clearly skilled in his trade, would pick such an obvious location to hide away in.

It all seemed intentional, like Lorenzo had something else planned. He turned to voice this to Peter but he turned too late, receive the back end of the car door. With a sigh, he got out from his own side, where Peter was speaking to Jones, who was flaunting a bulletproof vest and armour that looked like Star Wars merchandise. Peter was stepping into his own protective gear.

"I thought Lorenzo wasn't dangerous?" Neal caught up to his handler, who was donning a serious look that hadn't changed all morning. He presumed Peter was always this edgy when a case came to a close. Either that, or he had a gut feeling that he wasn't sharing with anyone.

"We don't have anything to suggest so, but you can never be too careful," Peter accepted an earpiece from Jones, fitting it in his ear.

"Where's my costume?" Neal asked, nodding towards the gear. "A dead CI is a useless CI."

"Yes, and that's why you're stepping out on this one. Wait for me in the car."

Neal blinked. "Excuse me?"

Peter sighed, as though he'd been expecting this argument. He turned to Jones - "Give me five," he instructed the younger agent. "Wait for me by the entrance. Do we still have eyes on our guy?"

"Target last seen on the second floor," Jones replied, signalling his team by the front of the building, lined up along the wall, to get into position. He headed over to join them, most likely going over the plan a final time.

"What do you mean I'm stepping out on this one?" Neal spoke up as soon as Jones was out of earshot. "This is because of the therapist thing isn't it? You don't trust me!"

Peter herded Neal over by the Taurus, away from the others. "Of course not, Neal, but I just think we should start with a smaller operation first. I don't want you getting hurt, and this is a simple arrest, there isn't anything you can do on this one."

"Well if it's so simple, why do you want me out of the way?" Neal's voice was hardening, and a look of hurt flashed across his face. Peter tried not to think about it.

"Next operation, I promise. I know you'll knock the undercover work out of the park, but leave the arrests to me."

"Fine." Neal turned away before Peter could say anything else, throwing himself back into the car. He used enough force on the door to express his thoughts on Peter's betrayal. What was the point in working with the FBI if they were going to keep him wrapped in cotton the entire time? He'd practically solved the case single-handedly, and now he was missing out on the most exiting part of it.

Peter looked as though he wanted to say something, but he turned back and made his way towards the building. Neal watched him address the unit, before the first team moved in. Neal sighed, longing to be part of the action and feeling more than a bit betrayed. Since Peter wasn't here, he put his feet up on the dashboard. Peter would soon experience the full front of the Caffrey sulk, and he wouldn't be happy about it.

"Are you the guy who talks to the dead?"

Neal spun around to look over his shoulder into the back of the car. There sat a man, early twenties, with the same square jawline and brown eyes as Lorenzo. Neal recognised that immediately. Lorenzo's file never said anything about relatives, nor dead ones at that. "What do you want?" He didn't mean to be snappy, but he wasn't in the mood for playing run-around-find-your-relative with ghosts right now.

"My brother's going to make a huge mistake. You need to get your guys out."

Neal instantly straightened, taking more interest. "I'm sorry but you'll have to be more specific." So The Magpie, had a brother. Or a dead one, but Neal couldn't decide whether this was a good thing. "Does he know we're here?"

"Yes, it's a trap. There's a bomb."

Neal froze, looking back towards the building. Crap. "Are you certain? He's your brother, if this is some kind of-"

"I'm positive, and if you don't act soon your buddies will be blown to bits-"

"Nice imagery."

"Look, I was killed six months ago in one of my brother's backstreet operations when someone tipped the feds off. He blames them for my death, and he's going to get revenge on the system. There is a bomb. I saw it. He's not thinking straight. You have about-" the man broke off to glance down at a gold plated watch on his wrist. Neal wasn't entirely sure that it worked. "Eight minutes."

Neal wasn't listening any more; he was already out of the car. "Do you know Mozzie?" He turned to the ghost, who had faded momentarily to reappear beside him.

The ghost smirked. "Everyone knows Mozzie."

"Good. Find him." Neal pivoted abruptly and began running towards the entrance of the building. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of Lorenzo as he ran out through a side door, that hadn't been mentioned in the operation specifics. Neal had more important priorities than to chase him. He bolted up the first set of stairs, but Peter must have already cleared that floor. The building had five floors, and there wasn't much time.

He bumped into, or rather bumped through Mozzie as he cleared the top of the stairs. He didn't hesitate to bring the paranoiac up to speed. "Moz, I need a distraction," Neal breathed, a hand to his side to ward off the oncoming stitch. He considered himself fit, but the cocktail of adrenaline and determination was playing hell with his body, and there was a lot of ground to cross between floors. "You need to get Peter to stop moving forwards because there's a bomb and it's going to blow up if we don't get him out of here."

"What am I supposed to do?" Mozzie argued. "I haven't exactly mastered the whole penny up the wall thing yet."

"I don't know. Just do something!" Neal didn't have time to argue; the clock was ticking and Peter's life, along with all those other agents were in danger. He raced past just as the ghost dissapeared, heading for the second floor.

Hearing a crash from above, he silently thanked Mozzie for the intervention, praying it was just that and not borderline mass destruction. With him you could never be too sure.

Reaching the third floor, he ran right into the muzzle of a sniper from SWAT. He suddenly found himself faced with over ten guns all pointing in his direction, apparently waiting for someone to give them the all clear to not shoot the FBI's consultant. Wide eyed, he held up his hands, looking past them for Peter, who was storming over, breaking through the circle of agents to seize his shoulder and pull him to one side. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? I made my orders very clear. You could have been killed, Neal!"

"Peter, there's a bomb. Lorenzo set a bomb and it's going to go off with us inside if we don't get out now." Neal didn't waste time by letting Peter vent out his fury on him.

The agent tensed, but he didn't look convinced. Perhaps exasperated was a better word.

Neal wasn't surprised - he had just foiled days of extensive planning and resources even if it was to save the lives of everyone involved.

"A bomb? Neal, how could you possibly know that, you were in the car."

Neal opened his mouth to respond but Peter silenced him with a finger, speaking into his earpiece. "Do you know anything about a bomb?"

The answer must have been negative, because Peter looked more pissed off than he had all morning. He motioned for the rest of the agents to continue up the stairs.

"Peter, please!"

"How could you possibly know there's a bomb?"

Neal went silent, eyes pleading but unable to bring himself to confess. Peter couldn't know...nobody could know. "I-I can't-"

Peter cut him off. "Neal, go back to the car," he ordered, before releasing his consultant, and moving towards the stairs to follow the rest of his team.

Neal ran after him, standing defiantly in the agent's path. "Peter, _listen_ to me! There is a bomb somewhere in this building. That is a fact. If you do not get everyone out of here, we are all going to die. Lorenzo has already left the building already. He's set a trap, Peter. Please believe me!"

Peter scanned the con's face, noting that whether he was right or not, Neal certainly believed what he was saying. Nobody could fake that kind of sheer panic. He looked genuinely terrified, and he knew the man only let other's see his emotions when they needed to, so this must be one of those times. He glanced between the stairs and his pleading consultant. "How could you possibly know this, Neal? I can't just abort this entire operation, everything we've worked for, if I do not have a valid reason. Why can't you tell-"

"I'm psychic." Not a complete lie, but it was vague enough to hide the truth.

Peter froze, narrowing his eyes. _That_ was something that had failed to make an appearance in Caffrey's file.

"Psychic?" His voice dripped with scepticism, towards both Neal's honesty, and the whole of the psychic crap in general. But somehow, he couldn't _not_ believe him.

"Peter, we're running out of time!"

There was a long silence, only dispelled by the sound of footsteps from the floor above. Then the agent put a finger to his earpiece and yelled into it, "Halt operation. Get everyone out of the building now!" He turned to Neal. "Let's go,"

Once certain his men were following, he ushered his consultant towards the stairs, as they raced back towards the entrance of the building. They made it out with just seconds to spare. The force of the explosion tore out of the building with an anguished roar. It threw them violently to the ground, along with the agents from SWAT who had thankfully made it out in time. The sky rained debris down on them as the heat from the building surged at their backs.

Peter was up first, along with the other agents who were slowly picking themselves up off the ground, guns and riot shields scattered across blackened concrete. The world seemed oddly muffled from the ringing in his ears, but he could make out Diana racing over from where she had been monitoring in the van, checking over everyone for injuries with a phone to her ear.

Peter rolled Neal over, who groaned something that sounded like 'Now do you believe me?' He took that as a good sign. The kid was sporting a small cut to the head, but it didn't look serious. "Neal." Peter gently tapped his consultant's cheek, rousing him. "Neal look at me."

Neal's eyes blinked sluggishly in surprise, before he seemed to snap back from wherever it is he went, frowning and pushing his handler to one side so he could sit up. That, quite frankly, turned out to be a terrible decision, and left his stomach doing somersaults in protest. He groaned, holding back the urge to be sick. He didn't wish to stain Peter's only decent suit.

"That's it, I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No!" Neal responded a little too suddenly. "I mean, I'm fine. There's no need to."

"You need to get checked out, Neal. You're bleeding."

Neal dabbed his shirt sleeve to his head, and sure enough, Peter was right. "Look. It's nothing serious. It doesn't even need stitches. A couple of painkillers and I'll be fine."

Hospitals were never a good idea, and the last time he'd been in one - a real one - he'd totally lost his shit. That was over 15 years ago, and he'd vowed he would never return. The mere thought of it sent him into panic.

Peter wasn't having it though. "Neal, why are you being hard on yourself? You could have a concussion. Do you expect me to just let you go wandering around New York and bleeding on everyone?."

"Peter, I'm not going to the hospital." Neal was surprised he still had the energy and mind power to argue, despite how his head was spinning the opposite way to his stomach.

The agent sighed and stood up, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. He also knew a concussion when he saw one. "Alright, but you're coming home with me."

"What?"

"Neal, if you won't go to the hospital, you need someone to watch over you to make sure your head doesn't explode in the next twenty four hours. Consider it bureau provided health insurance, since it's a safe bet that you don't have any. Now stay sat down for a bit-"

"On the floor?"

"Yes, on the floor, Neal, because right now I'm not quite sure standing up would agree with you. I'll go find you some water, okay?"

"Okay."

It didn't take long to find a bottle of water from somewhere, which Neal gratefully accepted.

"Not all at once okay?"

"Yes, Peter. I'm not going to keel over and die, you know."

"You'd better not, it would make me look bad."

Neal grinned, looking better than he had before. He waved Peter away - "Go check on your team."

Peter patted Neal's shoulder and then searched the crowd for Diana. Spotting her, he headed her way. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Just bruises and headaches, thankfully. We were lucky, it could have been much worse." That Diana's eyes drifted over to Caffrey gave Peter an idea of what she was thinking. Everyone had heard the consultant rattle off about a bomb, which just happened to save the lives of half the division. They would have questions - Hell, he had questions, which he was going to ensure Neal answered as soon as his concussion was taken care of.

"Go on, ask me," Peter said, letting her take that as a cue to ask the question everyone wanted to know.

"How in hell did Caffrey manage to know about a bomb before we did? We had absolutely nothing that could indicate Lorenzo even knew we were coming."

Peter mulled over his next options. Neal didn't seem too happy about telling Peter, for reasons that were beyond him. However, nobody was just going to sweep this under the rug, not until he came up with a valid reason for Neal's intel. Whether he liked it or not, his team needed to know how they'd narrowly missed being blown sky high. "He's psychic." Peter didn't sound very convincing, because he was still trying to convince himself.

"I'm being serious, Peter." Diana gave Peter a look, before taking a harder look at his expression. "And...so are you, apparently. Wait, you actually believe him?"

"He said he'd never lie," Peter replied, as though that explained everything. It did, in a way.

"Are you sure he wasn't involved? It seems awfully suspicious that he just happened to know the exact location of our gem thief, and then he plucked the idea of a bomb out of his head. What if he and Lorenzo are in it together? How can we be sure he's not just using us to help his criminal buddies?"

Diana had a point, but she hadn't chased Neal for three years. "I know Neal. That's not him."

"Well, if that's what you think, then you have my support. He looks like hell," she nodded to where Neal was sitting, looking particularly sorry for himself. "I'll deal with Hughes, go get him fixed up."

"Are you sure?" He didn't like the idea of letting her deal with their boss alone, especially once he was told about how well the takedown had gone.

"Peter, you were in the building too. Remember I was out in the van. You need a good night's sleep just as much as Neal does. Go."

Peter was lucky to have such a loyal team. He thanked her, and then walked back over to where Neal was sat, this time next to a funny little balding man. Fortunately for him, he could only see Neal. Meaning he couldn't hear the man say 'Right, that's my cue to go,' as Peter approached, nor could he see him take off with such haste that could only come from a strong dislike of the government.

Can you stand?" Peter held a hand out to his consultant.

Neal took the offered hand, using it to hoist himself up off the ground, grimacing as he tried to rewire his brain to his feet. He smoothed down his suit, briefly checking for any tears or burn marks, but unlike him, it seemed to be in good health.

Peter scoffed. "Neal, your suit's fine, and even if it wasn't, you're only coming home with me. The only other person you can flaunt your stylish attire on is El, and well, if you're trying that hard to impress my wife I should be worried."

"You think I'm stylish?" Neal's I'm-totally-making-fun-of-you smirk was a little down on it's usual influence, but it still had some of it's effect.

"Let's go, Neal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some long awaited Hurt/Comfort. Your thoughts are always appreciated. Now that Peter knows about Neal, there's room for things to start getting exciting! Remember this fic is also cross-posted at Ao3.
> 
> This chapter was Beta'd by the amazing VividEscapist.


	8. Comfort

"Okay, Neal, just let me open the door. Peter, have you got him? I don't want him collapsing on our porch. Here, I'll take your bag upstairs. Go get settled on the couch and Peter will get the first aid kit."

The moment Peter appeared with Neal on the doorstep of his home, Elizabeth had switched into full panic mode and began mothering him like he was on death's door. Neal was already uncomfortable with the special treatment - it was both something he'd never truly had, but also something he'd had too much of, depending on the way he looked at it. He realised his mistake of allowing Peter to bring him back to Brooklyn, and wanted more than anything to just curl up in his bed at home and be left alone.

Though Peter claimed to have no psychic powers of his own, he had an abnormal tendency to understand Neal when others didn't. This time, he seemed to sense Neal's discomfort. "Don't worry, she's always been a worrier. She would have fussed over you whether you got checked out at the hospital or not. Except you didn't, and you stubbornly arrived looking pale as a sheet with blood all down your face. Now you have to face the wrath of my wife."

Neal shot Peter a look, but the quick tilt of his head sent everything...wrong. He groaned a little, resting his head against the back of the couch and closing his eyes.

"Just know that if you fall asleep before we've checked you out, you will be waking up in the hospital."

Ah Peter, ever persistent. "Yes, Dad," he retorted.

The offhand comment was meant to be light-hearted, but it it hung in the air between them and brought up painful memories that Neal was too off his game to deal with. Luckily, Neal was saved from anything further by the sound of El coming back down the stairs, which prompted Peter to hastily retrieve the first aid kit from the kitchen.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?"

"I'm fine, Elizabeth, honestly. It's just a small cut, doesn't even need stitches," Neal replied, as El broke out the antiseptic wipes from an overly large box of medical supplies.

"And possibly a concussion. Those things are nasty. This may sting a little," El warned, before swabbing his cut gently with the wipe. It was no longer bleeding, but she cleaned the dry blood from his temple and found a cotton bandage pad. "Just in case it starts to bleed again, but you're right, it doesn't need anything more."

Neal let her tape the bandage to his head, deciding an 'I told you so' was beneath him. "Thank you. Am I allowed to wallow alone now?"

"You can wallow up in the guest bedroom, so long as the stairs aren't too menacing for you," Peter interjected as he came back from the kitchen, where he'd retreated from El's mothering. In one hand he held a glass of water, and in the other, a pill. He noticed a look in Neal's eyes he couldn't quite distinguish, but it came with a nervous shift on the sofa. "Pain pills," he elaborated, holding both hands out to Neal. "Just over the counter stuff to take the edge off your headache."

"I don't need to take anything. I'm fine," Neal's breathing hitched, and he moved a little too swiftly from the sofa. Where Peter was standing, he only saw his nurse from the institution, as he reached the start of a queue for daily medicine. He didn't need any flashbacks right now. "I think I can handle the stairs."

Peter stopped him with a hand. "You need to take something, Neal, you're concussed and I can see you're in pain. Why put yourself-"

"I. Don't. Need. It." Neal made sure to punctuate each word, before shrugging off Peter's hand and heading for the stairs without another word. He quickly dissapeared from view, leaving both Peter and El unsure of what had just happened.

"That wasn't the same Neal I spent three years chasing," Peter observed, looking towards his wife for guidance.

"Maybe he just doesn't want to be fussed over? You prefer to recoil in your own misery when you're ill."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't put myself through what he is. He looked terrified when I mentioned the hospital. Do you think I should go talk to him?"

El laid a hand on his shoulder, the small gesture conveying a thousand words. "I think you should let him sleep for a while. Maybe he'll perk up after some rest. You can try him again with the pills later."

"Yeah, you're right. But if he gets any worse, I'll spike his drink with them," he leaned over and kissed his wife, before helping to clear away the medical bombshell that had upturned their living room.

But like Peter could sense Neal, El was pretty good at reading Peter. "That's not all that's bothering you though, is it, hon?"

Peter sighed, cracking open a beer he had brought from the kitchen and slumping down into the spot Neal had previously occupied. "Today has been...eventful," he mused, tapping a finger on the can thoughtfully.

El sat down next to him, squeezing his hand. "Want to talk about it?"

Peter proceeded to quickly fill El in on the days events surrounding the attempted capture of Lorenzo, whose case had now been taken over by Counterterrorism Division, much to Peter's irritation. He made sure to tone down the moments with the bombs and explosions for El's benefit.

"So? You can't win every case, hon. There are some that will slip through the net."

"It's not the case that's bothering me. It's Neal. We had no intel whatsoever on a bomb in the building, and there was nothing in Lorenzo's file to even hint that he had violent intentions. Then, out of the blue, Neal somehow manages to find out about this bomb despite him having no connection with Lorenzo, and waiting out the operation in my car."

"You think he's lying?"

"I demanded to know how he knew about it. I had to, if I was going to pull the plug on the op. He said he's psychic."

"Wow."

Peter's thoughts trailed off, and he turned to his wife, frowning. "Wow? You believe him?"

"Don't you?"

Peter sighed. "Psychic, really?"

"My aunt was psychic remember? She read your palms."

"True. But your aunt didn't con for a living. I swear there's an angle in all this. I just don't know what, El."

Elizabeth hated seeing her husband so torn. Usually, she only ever saw him this way where Neal was concerned. Most women would have been more than annoyed with having their private life constantly turned over by work, but Neal was a part of Peter just like El was. They were just very different connections. "I think, you should wait until he's feeling better, and just ask him about it. He does trust you, and he wouldn't have told you if he didn't want you to know."

Words couldn't describe how lucky Peter was to have found El. She always knew exactly the right thing to say. "Love you hon,"

"You too, hon."

\---

Neal's hasty retreat to the Burke's guest bedroom left his head spinning, and it took all his nerves not to throw up on the carpet. Already feeling out of his depth, the sight of Peter handing him pills spooked him before he could really think about how ridiculous he was being. But being thrown back into a situation so similar to his childhood was just something he wasn't prepared for, nor sure of how to handle. His adolescent years had been controlled by pills, and Peter had unknowingly reconnected him with his past.

The Burkes would just have to wait, though, because he was in no fit state to go back down and explain why he'd narrowly avoided a nervous breakdown over some Ibuprofen.

He stumbled to the bathroom, filling a small plastic cup of water before taking a sip. He noted how erratically his hands were shaking. Splashing some water over his face, he just about managed to set the glass down on the bedside table before collapsing on the bed, worn out from the stress the day had inflicted on him. Curling up above the covers, it didn't take long before he fell into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke, light no longer filtered through the net curtains, only a dull glow from a nearby streetlamp. His phone said it was just after twelve. Sleep had worked better than the pills ever would have done; he felt more like his old self. The remnants of his concussion had uncovered his appetite once again, so he quietly left his room to make himself a snack downstairs, hoping Peter wouldn't mind the early hours raid on his fridge.

He nearly trod on Satchmo, who was sprawled out on the living room floor right in the middle of his path. Which was odd, because he usually slept on the floor of the master bedroom when his owners went to bed. His eyes trailed up from the dog and sure enough, fell on Peter's shadowed form, framed by the cheap superstore garden lights on the back porch. Appetite replaced by curiosity, he let himself out of the back door.

"It's a little late for birdwatching isn't it?" He took the seat next to his handler, noting the beer and willing to sell his soul for a glass of wine.

"I couldn't sleep, you?"

"Hungry."

"Ah."

Neal frowned at Peter's new-found disinterest in conversation. He turned and studied the agent silently, wondering whether he'd unknowingly stumbled into a trap that would involve Neal having to give up large parts of his life that he'd prefer to keep in the dark.

"So..." Peter wasn't looking at Neal, but staring out into the moonlit garden, clearly pondering over something he wasn't sharing.

"So..." Neal supplied helpfully.

"You're psychic."

 _And there was the trap._ "So, when you said you couldn't sleep, what you really meant was you were waiting until I woke up, knowing I'd be hungry and come downstairs, so you could lure me into a game of psychic-related twenty questions."

"Damn, you really are psychic."

"Hey, I'm not asking you to believe me. I only told you because I had to get you out of that building. It's not something I usually go around advertising."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Peter turned to face Neal, setting the can down.

"Because I knew you wouldn't believe me. You like solid facts and evidence. I didn't think the paranormal would be your cup of tea."

"It'll probably take some convincing. You're not wrong there."

Neal sighed, mulling over his next move. Opening up to Peter felt like exposing his vulnerabilities, but he'd known this would be coming from the moment he'd told Peter his deepest secret. Or at least, partly told him, because there was no way in hell he'd admit to spending his life talking to people who should no longer be talking.

The silence was comfortable, but his handler was still awaiting an answer. "Fine, you have questions, shoot."

Peter took a while deciding where to begin. This was the first chance Peter had been given to find out more about the man he'd chased for three years, who kept himself wrapped in a shroud of mystery. Moments like these he knew were precious, because Caffrey wasn't the kind of person to willingly part with details of his life. Peter had a feeling this newly arisen talent of Neal's had roots buried deep into the man's past.

"Have you known you were psychic all your life?" He started with an easy question, knowing opening up wasn't his consultant's strong point. He wanted Neal to be able to trust him.

"Yeah, since I was a kid. It's a part of me just like everything else."

"How does it work exactly?"

Neal pursed his lips thoughtfully. He did, after all, make a promise to never lie to Peter as soon as he was out of prison, as a sign of good faith. But sometimes, it was hard. "I don't really know, it's not exactly something that comes with an instruction manual. I just...know things-" _not technically a lie,_ "-about places, people. I can't really explain it."

"So you just _knew_ there was a bomb?"

Neal gave Peter a look. "I'm not lying to you, you know."

Peter's face turned genuine. "I know. Thank you. So you're psychic. I get that, even though I'll be awaiting proof for confirmation. But why wouldn't you go to the hospital or take the pills? That's not explained by psychic powers. You could have been hurt worse than you thought."

Neal flinched. "I just...I knew I was fine, and you know how long you have to wait at the hospital if your brain isn't falling out. I just wanted to get some rest."

"Neal, you know I recognise humour as an evasion. There's more to it than that."

"I..." Neal sighed, noticing the conversation was heading back into dangerous territory. "I just don't like hospitals okay? Just because you think I'm a superhuman entity, doesn't mean I don't actually have fears. They just creep me out. As for pills, I prefer not to take them unless I'm dying."

"Hmm." Peter must have been satisfied with the answer, perhaps because of Neal's honesty. "Alright. Well if it helps, I'm afraid of clowns."

Neal spluttered. "Clowns?"

"Hey, I didn't make fun of your fears. Don't make me call you an ambulance."

"So wait. If you were dying-"

"Oh great." Peter scoffed at the sudden morbid direction.

"No, seriously. If you were dying, and the only person who could save you was a clown, complete with bow tie and red nose and everything, would you let him save you?"

"Neal, that would never happen."

"But what if it did? Would you rather die than face your fears?"

See, this is why I don't share anything with you. You have a real enlightened imagination."

"Just think, all this time running from you, If I'd disguised myself as a clown you would have been none the wiser."

"Funny. I would have still caught you."

The two men fell back into amiable silence, Peter finishing his drink, and Neal wishing he could have one. He'd had to learn the hard way that alcohol and head injuries don't mix, when he'd tried to use it as a substitute for pills.

Suddenly, Peter spoke up again. "Wait. You said paranormal before. You mean like ghosts?"

Neal tried not to look like the question meant anything to him. "Well, I guess," he paused, choosing his words carefully. "I think we're all connected to the deceased somehow, some just better than others."

"So when Jones caught you sitting in that graveyard talking to yourself, you were ghost whispering?"

Neal managed a convincing 'don't be stupid' look. It hadn't taken him long to find out about the tail. "Funny. Actually I was visiting a friend. It's nice to talk to them even though they're not here any more, as a sign of respect I guess." Though Neal was technically speaking the truth, his words suggested he'd been to visit a grave, rather than a person belonging to one. It was a sure fire way to change the subject.

"Oh," Peter mentally slapped himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"It's fine. I'm only sorry that you're tail was so painfully obvious."

Peter chuckled, bringing the mood back up with him. "I see nothing gets by the elusive Neal Caffrey."

"Wait." Neal froze, holding a hand up to silence Peter, who was reaching for his gun.

"What?" Peter whispered, eyes suddenly darting out into the garden.

He paused for effect, then put a finger to his temple. "My psychic senses are tingling. They say your giving me the whole day off tomorrow."

Peter's face at that moment was picture worthy. He swatted Neal's shoulder playfully. "For that, you're working the mortgage fraud tomorrow."

"But I'm concussed! What if I'm bleeding into my brain?"

"Neal, calling it a minor concussion was pushing it."

"And you weren't practically tearing your hair out worrying about me."

Peter stood up, shaking his head with worn exasperation. "I'm off to bed. If you haven't bled to death internally by the morning, I'll be waking you bright and early. So I suggest you get some sleep. Goodnight, Neal."

"Night, Peter."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for being so up and down with updates. Just know despite how long they seem to take, I am still dedicated and willing to finish this story, because I enjoy writing it so much. I just have no time to write at the moment, but as soon as I do I'll make up for the wait. Thank you for your understanding.
> 
> As for the story, it's about time Neal and Peter had the long awaited discussion about his 'talents', what did you think?


	9. Out in the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Have some angst and paranormal banter from me.

"I know what this is. This is a punishment."

Peter dragged his eyes away from the screen to look towards his consultant, who was bouncing a rubber ball against the sides of the stakeout van. Neal was fidgety, twitchy, and it was driving up his blood pressure. "And why do you think that?" he replied finally, hoping to distract Neal from being his usual self by playing along.

"You know I hate the van, and you're pissed that Counterterrorism stole your case. So by placing me in a situation of extreme discomfort, you're venting your inner rage." The words rolled off Neal's tongue almost poetically, but didn't stop it from sounding ridiculous.

"Nice observations, Dr. Phil. If you break something in here I'm putting you back in prison." Peter motioned towards the rubber ball, that had resumed its persistent thudding against the floor.

"At least I'd be occupied. I mean, how long has Diana even been in there with that guy?"

The guy was Jack White, a rich businessman recently paroled. He'd been charged with embezzlement, but now the feds were reopening the case after new evidence had been brought to light. He was laying low - trying for good behaviour - so they couldn't tempt him with a business deal. Their next option was Diana, who'd been sent in the meet with White on a date after discovering the man had several online dating accounts. They were going to see where that took them.

"Diana is doing her job." Peter told him. "Now you do yours and watch the screen." He swiped the ball mid-throw from Caffrey and passed it off to Jones, who pocketed it. He too had grown tired of his twitchy CI's boredom-fueled antics.

A few minutes later, Neal perked up again. "You could have at least let me go in. You promised I could go undercover on our next case. How am I supposed to access my full potential if I'm not allowed to do what I'm best at?"

"Stealing?"

The quip made Neal huff, and he leaned back in the chair, falling silent. It felt like they had been in the van for days, but it couldn't have been more than a hour. Even Mozzie had refused to come and entertain him, saying that 'he'd rather wander the earth eternally than voluntarily enter the _Suitmobile._ '

Peter knew exactly what it was that Neal was trying to achieve with the silent treatment, but it still worked and Peter eventually felt guilty. "Look, I'm sorry okay? I know I promised, but we couldn't approach this guy from the business angle. He's careful, but he's also lonely and single, which is why we sent Diana in to charm him-"

"Diana can be charming?" Neal looked up, wondering why - if that was true - he always got the cold shoulder.

"You'd know that if you didn't pull every string to get on her nerves all the time."

"I only borrowed her pen," Neal argued.

"Several of her pens, her spare change, and her watch, all of which you 'misplaced' in your drawer," Agent Jones chipped in, subconsciously checking the location of his own watch, as if the comment had reminded him.

Peter frowned. "Is that true Neal?"

"I returned them the second she asked for them. I need to keep my talents sharp; all this written work and no action is mind-numbingly dull."

"Dammit, Neal, you really need to be careful and not burn your bridges. Right now there's a lot of tension in the office after our last case. You need to give people a reason to not blame you." Peter was grilling him with that serious 'this is really important so listen to me' look, and it made him edgy.

"Because they think I helped Lorenzo escape and foiled the case." Neal slid a sly glance at Jones, but the agent was focusing intently on the monitors - so intently Neal imagined he was eavesdropping. No help there.

"Some people are just a little uncertain right now. I don't think they are quite sure what to believe, but give them time. Rather than stealing their stuff, you should give psychic readings or whatever the hell it is you do, which would work better in your favour. Give them a reason to believe you, and then work on getting them to trust you. It will make the next four years much easier. Don't forget you're one step away from being the center of an investigation into the case."

Peter tried to be easygoing with his advice - after Neal's absurd and still unproven claims of psychic abilities, everyone in the office was on edge, and at the very least skeptical. Most of the agents were giving Neal some space, but Peter ensured they weren't also giving him a hard time. 

"Peter's right; we've yet to see any proof that you are in fact psychic," Jones spoke up. "Don't forget we're all people that go by facts and hard evidence. I do want to believe you - having a psychic in the office would be pretty darn cool. But People are looking for someone to blame right now because we all have no idea how the hell such a simple case went up in smoke. Talk to a few spooks or something and you'll have the whole office under your thumb."

Neal nodded, fidgeting uncomfortably and suddenly finding his hands quite interesting. Of course, nobody knew just how this 'psychic' thing actually worked, but whenever ghosts came into conversation he always winced. "I know. But it's just not something I like to put on display. Plus, I can't really control it, or explain it. It's just there..."

Neal was saved from having to evaluate further by movement on the screen. Diana and the perp had briefly stepped outside the restaurant for a smoke, and Diana must have taken the opportunity to plant the bug upon receiving the cigarette, because they now had full audio along with the visuals. 

"Right, we're up," Jones commented, turning back to the screens along with Peter. All talk before had been forgotten. Neal contemplated lifting the ball from Jones, but decided he'd already exhausted the potential amusement there. 

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and startled, glancing off towards the corner of the van. He saw a familiar face. Both agents noticed the sudden flinch and looked at him for explanation. "Just thought I saw something..." he muttered, turning back to the unseen intruder. 

"Hah, your hilarious, Caffrey," Jones rolled his eyes, apparently seeing the demonstration as a way of mocking his idea of giving proof of his abilities.

Neal saw the opportunity to play it off and took it. "Yeah, well you wanted proof, I'm starting to sense something. I think - wait, someone is trying to contact us," he brought a finger to his head and frowned in concentration, and it was apparently enough for the agents to laugh it off and go back to their screens. Finally free from the scrutiny, he turned back to the ghost who had taken up residence on one of the spare chairs.

_Sorry,_ he mouthed, and then broke into a smile. Once he left the Supermax, he thought he'd never see the serial art thief again.

"Neal, long time no see." Chase greeted the consultant in his heavy accented English. "You should have visited. But, I know how eager you were to leave that place." He paused, but realising that the criminal would not be able to reply, he continued. "Anyway, I come bearing bad news. Actually, about your current case, since your strange little friend informed me that was what you are doing these days. Your agent is in danger."

"Who, Diana?" Neal spoke aloud, then grimaced, realizing how quiet it was in the van. He turned back to the two agents to clarify. "How's Diana?"

"So far so good," Peter replied. "They've gone back inside, but we still have audio. I think they're ordering the shrimp."

"Great," Neal replied without much enthusiasm, turning away. 

"Is that her name?" Chase went on. "Either way, she is in danger. Your man, he knows about the operation. He knows she is FBI. He was in the same prison as you, but he is dangerous. He is a good man deep down, just way in over his head." Chase began to explain the intel he'd gathered from the prison, Neal nodding along much to the amusement of the van's occupants.

Chase's features darkened. "He took a blade to a man in prison but evaded the guards."

Neal swore suddenly, causing Peter to eye him strangely. "Diana's in danger," he blurted out, trying not to think about the consequences.

Peter sighed in exasperation, while Jones asked agents on the inside what was going on. Apparently, they were still musing over the menu. "Neal, I told you two seconds ago she was fine. What could possibly make you change that?

"Our guy's from the Supermax right? The one I was in?"

"Yeah, sentenced to six years for embezzlement. He's never done time for violence."

"He knows that Diana is an agent. Someone tipped him off in prison a few days before he paroled that the feds were going to re-open the investigation. He's never been caught for violence but that's because he's good at hiding it. He shived a guy in prison-"

"Hold on, Neal, that was never reported. Where are you suddenly getting this from?"

"That's because he was never caught. We need to pull Diana out, Peter," Neal pleaded, but the look on Peter's face told him he'd played his last chance card. He understood though - Neal wouldn't even believe himself. He sounded crazy with these wild stories. He looked around but Chase had gone, and neither agents believed him. 

The silence stretched out agonizingly. Neal could see Peter was going through many different approaches in his head. "I'm sorry, Neal, but this is beyond believable now. I want to trust you. Really I do. But you can't do this. Your going to get yourself put back in prison and I won't be able to stop it. I'm going to call you a cab...I suggest you go straight home." He paused, the next few words necessary but agonising to say. "And...I also think you should consider going back to that therapist-"

Neal didn't want to listen anymore. He got up and stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him. Why him? Why did he have to receive all this knowledge if he couldn't do anything about it? What had he done to deserve the torment? It had ruined his entire life in every aspect - all because the dead couldn't just stay dead.

He didn't call a cab. He didn't even start walking home. He was expecting Peter to go after him, but perhaps he thought it was best to leave him be. He didn't care anymore - if they weren't going to do anything, he would just have to do it himself. He strode off towards the entrance of the restaurant, but before he could get to the door it seemed all hell broke loose inside.

\--

Peter sighed, wincing as the door was slammed shut. He wished that could have gone better. But there was no way he could possibly believe Neal could suddenly pull a fountain of case-related knowledge from his head in front of them, without being somehow involved. Believing this psychic cover would put him in early retirement and Neal back in prison or someplace worse. Yet he still couldn't help feeling like he'd betrayed Neal. He just hoped he would go straight home, and not do anything stupid. He began to fumble for his phone to find out where his CI had gone to.

Jones must have sensed his agitation. "Hey, Boss, you did the right thing. We were both here the entire time - this psychic thing can only go too far before you have to question his motives."

Before Peter could find his phone, he glanced up at movement on the surveillance screen, showing the front of the restaurant. Sure enough, his CI was heading straight for the door. "Dammit, Neal." He slammed a fist down on the table, and as he did something came over the audio. _"Everyone who doesn't work here get the fuck out. If any feds come in, I'll kill the agent. Move, now!"_

Peter watched as the customers spilled out of the doors,  with Neal slipping inside. Jones was yelling into his radio to get his teams into position around the building and to get a negotiator in there asap. Neither agent had time to think about how the consultant had been right. "We need to get Neal out of there. Dammit! Why didn't we see this coming? Pass me a headset. I want to know everything that's going on in there now!"

\--

Neal easily let himself into the restaurant. As the crowd began to disperse he could see the perp holding a gun to Diana's temple. Neal became an easy target once everyone had left the building.

"Hey, what don't you understand about get the fuck out of here!" White yelled, pulling Diana in front of him. Her eyes were screaming at Neal to do what he was told.

"Listen to me Jack; it doesn't have to go this way. The feds don't have any evidence on you, so by doing this you're only incriminating yourself."

"Get out of here Caffrey," Diana hissed to Neal. She was going to kill him if their perp didn't get there first.

"Shut up! You're one of them. I said no damn cops!" The man cocked his gun, pressing his arm across Diana's throat to hold her in front of him.

"I'm not!" Neal said quickly. "Let me show you." He moved his hand very slowly down towards his trouser leg, holding his other hand out in a placating gesture. He lifted it to show his anklet, before taking a step forward. "I mean it, I'm not one of them. But I know you don't want to do this,"

The man moved the gun away from Diana and pointed it towards him. "How? You don't know me!" Jack's eyes were erratic, darting from exit to exit. Neal knew that once the he realised there was no way out, they were in trouble.

Neal thought back to what Chase had told him in the van - what he would have told Peter if he'd been given time to explain.

"This isn't what you want to happen. You're a good person, you were just trying to protect someone. Someone made you steal the money from your company, but you knew nobody believed you. I know what that is like. The FBI could get the guy that did this to you - they can look into your case and you can help them prove what really happened."

Diana frowned at the new intel, wondering if the consultant was ever planning to enlighten them with that. It would have certainly changed their case. She let Caffrey continue the negotiation, since he somehow seemed to know what he was doing. Either that or he had a death wish.

"It's too late now. I've lost six years of my life because they didn't believe me!"

"I know and I'm sorry for that. You can't change what happened before, but you can change this. Please put the gun down."

At that moment the doors burst open, and the room quickly filled with agents, lead by Peter and Jones.

"White! Put the gun down!" Peter yelled, the team of agents advancing towards the centre of the large room.

"Back off!" Jack shouted, pressing the gun hard against Diana's temple. "Come any closer and I'll kill her."

"What will that achieve White?" Neal's voice softened, but his eyes remained steady. Their perp was using Diana to his advantage, using her body to obscure his own. Neal knew that if Jack decided to point the gun at him, the FBI would not be able to stop him.

"I don't understand..." Jack now aimed the gun at Neal's forehead, but his hand was shaky. Around them, guns raised and several agents shouted, but none could get a clear shot with Diana in the way. "How do you know all this? You said you weren't a cop, but you know more than they do."

Neal looked straight at the man, ignoring the commotion around them. "It's what I do. Put the gun down. Let them help you."

A silent stand off ensued, but eventually he realized the truth in Neal's words and set the gun down, releasing Diana as the agents moved in to secure him. Not wanting to face Peter, Neal made a quick assessment that Diana was alright before heading for the door, promptly walking out into the cool, night air.

Neal knew Chase was there before he'd even made it outside. He joined the ghost, who was leaning against the corner of the building. If he could smoke, he would have had a cigar to his lips. "She would have died if you hadn't come. Thank you."

"No, thank you." Chase turned to face him. "Sometimes, innocents slip through the system, which causes them to do bad things. He would have got himself killed if you did not talk sense into him. I'm sorry about what it has caused between you and your friend."

Neal sighed, remembering the things Peter had said. Neal wasn't sure if his handler had doubted his sanity from the start, and had just played along all this time. "Don't worry about it. Living people will never understand, which is why I don't tend to be sentimental. I don't think I was ever supposed to have friends."

Chase reached out, his hand resting just above his shoulder. They both knew they couldn't make contact, but the gesture said what was unspoken. "Things will get better for you. Stay strong."

Neal opened his mouth to reply but the ghost was gone, leaving him alone once again. The air had grown bitter, like his mood, so he began to head down the street towards home. He could have called a cab, but despite the cold, a walk would help him organize his thoughts.

At the end of the road, he heard Peter call his name. He paused, and then turned the corner as the first few drops of rain began to fall.


	10. Theatrics

Mozzie watched despairingly as each floor they passed brought up the number count by one, bringing them closer to the festering pit of suits his friend was dragging him towards. He hated elevators, but an elevator on its way to the suit HQ would have killed him, had he not already been dead. "Tell me again, mon frère, why we're doing this?"

Neal sighed, his irritation showing it hadn't been the first time today that the ghost had criticised their mission. "Because I am this close-" he pinched his fingers together to illustrate, "-to being driven off in a straight jacket, and you need to help me avoid that."

"By stalking your own friends?"

"What was I supposed to do, Moz? I'm not psychic. I can't make this information just come into my head, but the entire department - including Peter - needs to know that I am in fact sound of mind. Or, better yet, that I'm not somehow linked to every case we pursue. That's why we're going to convince them that I'm psychic."

Mozzie's sudden silence was beginning to make Neal anxious. That, and the fact that the ghost hadn't once looked him in the eye on their way up.

The elevator, thankfully empty apart from the two of them, sounded its arrival. Neal inhaled sharply, praying that things would run smoothly for once. He turned to Mozzie. "Look, just tell me you found something out about everybody?

Mozzie bit his lip, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like "Sort of..."

Neal narrowed his eyes, not liking the sound of that at all. "Wait, what do you mean 'sort of?' Mozzie, what did you do?"

The elevator doors opened, saving Mozzie from having to answer. Neal stepped out and turned the corner, stopping dead in his tracks before he reached the glass doors.

There were ghosts. Everywhere. On first glance it may have just looked like a busy office - like when another division turns up to borrow office space, but over the years Neal had learned how to spot a ghost right away. They looked no different from himself, or any other agent in the room.

"Mozzie!" he hissed under his breath, eyes scouting around for the little ghost, who had conveniently disappeared. It appeared the dead mastermind had somehow managed to contact the dead relatives of the entire department. He clenched his fists and slipped back into his consultant role, trying to wave away any signs that something was off.

"Hey...Neal?" Peter was suddenly beside him, studying him with eyes that were tinted with concern. Neal managed something akin to his usual smile, responding with a "Yeah, what's up, Peter?"

 "You. You've been stood there for about five minutes now. Everything okay?" After the events of the White case, Peter had been tiptoeing around him, not wanting to shatter their already fragile relationship. Neal hadn't been right with him - rightly so - since Peter had said what he had that night. It didn't help that the entire department was torn between congratulating him for saving Diana, or giving him a wide berth. Luckily, their cases had all been in-and-out's since then, with Neal making healthy contributions that were still borderline insane, but reliable proof of his famed ability. That had now become the hot topic at work.

"Oh yeah. I must have zoned out. I'm going to my desk now." Neal walked off before Peter had a chance to say anything else. He slumped down in his seat, knowing that the second a ghost caught his eye, all hell would break loose. Ghosts could become very agitated when denied the chance to speak to a loved one, but whatever Mozzie was thinking, there was no way he was going to hold a séance in the middle of the White Collar offices.

"I can explain." Mozzie suddenly appeared beside him, making Neal flinch.

"Yes, you can, as soon as you've got rid of them."

"Do you have any idea how long it took to get them all here? This is your chance to prove-"

"No, Moz, I said I needed facts, not the undead relations of all my co-workers. Get them out. All of them."

Mozzie huffed but didn't say anything. Neal watched whilst he rounded up the dead, until the offices were once again pleasantly spacious. Neal couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. He clamped his mouth shut though, when Diana and Jones shared a look on his behalf.

Other than that one incident, the day went relatively smooth. Peter had given Neal a stack of cold cases to look over, which were intriguing enough to hold his interest for most of the afternoon.

A couple of hours before it was time to pack up, he was summoned to Hughes office with the infamous double finger point. Peter was there too, arms folded over his chest while his face held a troubled stare. Neal glanced between the two, before closing the door and helping himself to a seat, since they were probably going to be talking to him. Or about him - he only ever received those looks when he was in trouble.

"Is this about Diana's pen?" He immediately sought out humour as his initial defence. "Because I swear, I only borrowed it for-"

"Lorenzo is still in New York." Hughes blunt voice interrupted him before the man took a seat behind his desk.

"The bomb guy?" Neal clarified. "But why? He has most of the FBI, not to mention Interpol out looking for him. What's so important that's stopped him from covering his bases?"

"We don't know," Hughes continued. "But he's turned up on security cameras in the surrounding area. We've got agents from almost every division out to arrest on sight. Until then, I'm putting you under house arrest-"

"What?"

"-until we find him." Hughes was persistent in ensuring he was heard before Neal went off on whatever rant he chose. "There will also be agents posted outside so I suggest for your own sake you stick to it."

Peter gave him a sympathetic glance. "It's for your own protection, Neal. Just until we can be sure this guy isn't going to go after anyone in the FBI. You specifically, because the last thing we want is Lorenzo making a connection between the tip off about the bomb and you. His file shows he had a brother who was killed-"

"In an FBI take down I know, I know. It's most likely a revenge attack. I read the file. "He didn't bother going into specifics. He was too damn angry about everyone treating him like some priceless Monet, knowing that once he was damaged, his use would run out. It dehumanised him some, knowing that he was the one who had to do the work to prove he was more than just an asset but in fact a human being.

Peter grimaced at the con's flaring temper. He knew Neal didn't like to be confined. "So we're not sure how far he's willing to go to make us pay for what he thinks is our fault. He's already proved he's a very dangerous man. I know it's not ideal, but at least it's not prison."

Neal fixed his glare on Peter, cold blue eyes unwavering. "It may as well be. I don't belong here."

He then turned and walked out, making a hasty exit across the bullpen, leaving Peter and Hughes in stagnant silence.

"What did he mean by that?" Hughes looked towards the veteran agent. He knew that Peter understood Caffrey more anyone else, even if he didn't understand the bond between the two. Peter seemed willing to put his career on the line for the kid, despite it being thrown back in his face one too many times. But Hughes also knew that Peter was a damn good agent, and that after what happened to his previous CI, he would do everything in his power to ensure his new one would be safe from harm. And corruption.

Hughes also suspected Peter blamed himself for being unable to keep his previous CI on the path of straight and narrow, and therefore was responsible for his death. But that he kept to himself.

Peter sighed, running a hand over his face. "I don't know." His gaze spanned out across the office, watching Neal turn the corner and step into the elevator, not once looking back. "I don't know."

\---

Neal trudged down the streets towards home, opting to take the longer route to both annoy Peter, and to give himself some space to ponder over the day. His life was like a jigsaw with broken pieces - he was destined to never be a whole but to be fragments that could never build up a bigger picture. In other words, his life was a mess. He'd initially thought that this contract with the FBI would do him a lot of good: help him to fit back into society, make him feel like he had a place, a purpose. But all it had appeared to do was complicate matters further, not to mention once again being wrongly misjudged on his sanity.

Peter was also the only _real_ friend he had. Real as in very much alive, and not a bad influence on him. Most of his other friends seemed to lack those qualities. And now...now he was being treated like a child by the one person he looked up to and tried so damn hard to impress. He knew that if anyone could change the person life had moulded him into, it was Peter.

Speaking of, he didn't hear the agent's voice yelling his name behind him like he had after the showdown in the van. He probably hadn't even left the office.

It was interesting to see that walking home in a rage had become a frequent occupation of his. At least this time though, it wasn't snowing. Just a bitter chill in the air. He wished he'd wrapped himself up more.

Neal weighed his options. He could run - Mozzie would help him run - but the thought of leaving behind a life he was just starting to get used to, to go back to always looking over his shoulder didn't really appeal to him. He could withdraw his contract with the feds. He'd managed fine in prison before whilst playing the insanity card. He had Chase there too. But just thinking about prison dug up nauseous memories of a cell too small, too tight and constricting and-

He scrapped that option too. It was funny - here he was now with the most freedom in his life he'd ever had, now that nobody was looking to arrest him and he wasn't stuck in a place full of social misfits. Yet he felt as though he had nothing, no freedom, no control. No friends.

He shook his head. The harsh frost was making him morbid. He would be fine tomorrow, after a bottle of wine.

He was too distracted, too consumed by his own thoughts to notice he was being tailed. But the man played to the shadows so that even if Neal were on top of his game, he would have barely caught a passing glimpse.

Instead he walked steadily onwards, ironically being only a block away from June's when something struck the back of his head, hard. He crumpled to the pavement, unconscious before his body hit the cold concrete.


	11. Distraught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait...again. Especially after leaving you guys on a cliffhanger. That was cruel. These last few chapters were hard to get right, so I've kind of worked backwards from the end. Which is why this chapter's taken so long. I've also tweaked the tags a bit. But, I now have a mostly completed fic so expect another update fairly soon!
> 
> I'm super happy people are enjoying this. As always, hearing what you think about the story is awesome and makes my morning. Have a good day everyone!

It was coming close to two hours since Caffrey's tracker had gone dark. Any hopes of an early finish to the day had been dismissed, with the office now bustling with coffee-fuelled agents on overtime, expecting a long and potentially frustrating night.

As for the conference room, crowded was an understatement. Peter had requested - more like demanded - the presence of every agent in their division, while they went over the evidence they had and decided how to act upon it. Even Hughes had taken an active role in the hunt for the AWOL consultant - which had surprised everyone because he was the most doubtful of the contract that had united con and cop.

Hughes was making phone calls to other divisions, cashing in a few of his favours for manpower and resources. Nobody knew Caffrey better than Peter, which is why he trusted Peter's judgement when he'd asked the agent whether Caffrey had pulled a fast one, or if they were looking at a kidnapping. Peter had responded with certainty that someone had taken Neal, and trusting his judgement, Hughes was acting on that faith.

Peter's inner circle of agents was sat around the conference table, with the other agents stood around, waiting for instructions but knowing better than to ask. The atmosphere was tense. Peter was pacing - had been pacing for a good ten minutes, his footsteps sharp against the silence of the room.

Diana shared a glance with a thoughtful-looking Jones, seated opposite, before looking back at her boss. Neal's apparent abduction had hit him hardest, understandably - the agent overworked himself trying to keep the con on the straight and narrow, whilst out of harm's way. Anger was his coping mechanism in stressful situations, and she'd learned to just sit back and allow him some venting time. She didn't need to be told that her boss blamed himself. But if he went on pacing like that, he'd wear a hole in the floor.

"Peter..." she began.

That seemed to snap him out of his trance. It was a swift transition between him staring off at nothing to slamming his fist down on the conference room table. Diana didn't miss the way his face tightened with anger and self-blame. "I should have gone after him!"

"It's not your fault."

Peter looked at Diana, and something about that returned his composure. He didn't need to voice the doubt he had with her words, as it was written plain across his face. He didn't know who blame: himself for failing to keep Neal safe, Neal for getting himself abducted, hell, even Hughes for authorising and enforcing house arrest in the first place. But most of that blame belonged to him - Neal had trusted him, and he'd let him down.

At first he'd thought Neal ran. Let's face it - that was the sort of impulsive, boneheaded stunt he would pull when faced with a situation he disliked. And Neal had made sure the agents knew his opinion on the house arrest. But, after they'd reached the place Neal's tracker was last online - the crime scene - Peter was faced with the startling revelation that his CI was missing, hurt, and could well already be dead.

"It was - is - my job to keep the damn kid safe, and now we have no idea who has taken him or where he is now." Peter forced himself to speak in the present tense, because Neal was too smart, too charming, to wind up in a body bag. That wasn't how it worked. He'd either go out with a bang on his high horse or live to immortality. That was as factual as the laws that were his duty to enforce.

A probie spoke up as Peter paced the front of the conference room. "Are you sure he didn't run?"

Heads turned in that direction. The young agent must have been either incredibly brave, or bravely stupid.

Peter's fist clenched, vividly trembling, not unlike the rest of him. He was falling apart. "Get out."

The younger agent didn't waste time in fleeing from more of Peter's wrath. He got up so quickly he almost tipped his chair backwards.

Peter scrubbed a hand across his face tiredly, composing himself after that little outburst. "If anyone else has any more helpful contributions like that, you know where the door is. The rest of you, thank you for offering to stay back." He was ready to do whatever it took to get Neal back. He banished any thought-clouding anger to the back of his head, forcing a professional, organised mindset. _That_ was what would bring the consultant home. "Okay, lets find Neal. Diana, for the benefit of the room, can you go over the crime scene?"

Diana pushed the files to the middle of the desk. She skipped the pleasantries for the blunt truth - someone had to be, for Neal's sake. "There was no weapon visible at the scene, but we've got people checking dumpsters. Forensics are still dusting so we're waiting on fingerprints and we're currently pulling up surveillance from the area. We've got the reports on the blood though. It's Caffrey's."

Peter grimaced. When they'd reached the place of Neal's abduction the first thing they'd spotted was his tracker laying discarded in the middle of the pavement. What was more alarming was the few noticeable spots of blood on the pavement, leading off in a trail towards the edge of the road. Presumably this was where the consultant had been bundled into a van, judging by the tire marks that had marred the roadside. It wasn't much blood, but they had no idea just how badly he was hurt, and that alone was killing the agent.

They had also found his fedora by the roadside. The kid loved that hat, and his abductor had purposefully stamped on it. Repeatedly.

"Right. Get that surveillance pronto. I want facial recognition on whoever shows up on that footage if they don't already stand out. Let me know when you have the prints." Peter waved his hand in dismissal, and the agents filed out to go back to their own desks. Neal was a complex and private person, and many of the agents still hadn't decided on their opinions of the new addition to the office. Nobody directly disliked him - he made that hard to do when he practically radiated charm and smiles, but they still weren't quite sure where he sat on the insanity line.

They could try and criticise him, but nobody could deny that there was a gaping hole left in the office without the consultant's presence.

Apart from Diana and Jones - the only other agents who knew Neal well enough to be distraught over his disappearance - it was the other probies that missed Neal the most. _They_ were Neal's audience - they were equally new to the office so they didn't judge him, and were captivated by his smile and endless array of card tricks. They were torn by the news and had insisted on staying at the office, even if the only thing to do at this time was to take charge of the coffee rounds.

Only Peter was left in the conference room. He hadn't told Elizabeth the reason he was working late yet - not until they had concrete evidence and knew where they stood on this. As painful as it was, it was merely a waiting game now, and Peter had never felt so helpless. He just hoped they would get him back in one piece. He'd failed once, and when Neal had come out with that insane proposal in prison a week after he'd been sent back, Peter thought he'd found a chance to correct his past wrongs. To make amends for the CI he'd failed with a new consultant he'd ensure wouldn't go down the same path Marcus had.

Way to go screw that up, Peter.

He didn't realise Jones had come back into the room until the respectable agent spoke up. "We'll get him back, Peter."

"Yeah, we will."

\---

 When Neal opened his eyes, it was just as dark as when he'd closed them. Disorientated was understatement of the year, especially when he was pretty sure he already had a concussion, judging by the radiating pain in the back of his head and the encroaching nausea. He was about to check for blood when he realised his hands were bound in front of him - tight - with what he suspected were cable ties.

So either whoever did this knew what they were doing, or knew enough about him to know ropes and handcuffs were laughable.

He felt down his pant leg to his ankle, and it was no surprise his tracker was absent. He didn't think he'd ever miss it, but there was no better time than now to feel it chafing the hell out of his leg.

"Peter won't be a happy bunny." He spoke just to hear the sound of his own voice, and also in the hope that he'd get a response. Hope was a useless currency, however, because he was greeted with the same chilled silence. As his senses returned to him, he noted he was on his side, so he shuffled up into a sitting position. In doing so, his back roughly collided with a wall, which he propped himself up against.

There wasn't even enough light to calculate how big the room was, and he didn't want to get up and wander blindly for fear of injuring himself further. Nope, he was quite content sitting here. Besides, if his kidnapper was smart enough to use cable ties, it was unlikely the door, if there was one, was unlocked. He felt really, really sick, but forced himself to get over it, because it was too dark to move around and he didn't fancy sitting next to his own puke for who knew how long.

He wondered what Peter was doing now. He hoped the agent wasn't too mad; it wasn't his fault he'd been kidnapped. His situation was almost comical; he'd been forced into house arrest only to be swiped off the street before he even got there.

He'd never been kidnapped before. No - that wasn't true, he had. But that time didn't really count, because he'd technically only been abducted all but ten foot down a corridor to another room in a hotel he'd been staying in. And even that was only a misunderstanding after a night of poker - he'd insisted the fake chips couldn't have possibly been him because he had arthritis in his hands, which made creating anything so delicate impossible in his case. They'd been surprisingly understanding, and offered their apologies and a promise to find the guy that had polluted their casino with bad money. They'd all sat down and had a drink and a good laugh about it afterwards. It had been a good night.

Okay, so maybe this was his first time being kidnapped. There's a first time for everything, said one wise man, but Neal would have been quite happy to pass on this opportunity.

He wondered if Mozzie would know he was here. The little ghost always seemed to be able to locate him (unfortunately only a one-way thing) so perhaps he'd drop in and tell him what the hell he was supposed to do now. That would be nice.

He closed his eyes. He most definitely wasn't passing out, because Neal Caffrey didn't pass out. He just forgot how to open them again.

\---

Diana stuck her head around the door to the conference room. "Boss, you should see this."

Peter looked up. Diana looked grave, and his heart immediately plummeted six stories. "Neal?"

"No, but we know who has him." She handed him the file. Peter opened it to see a screenshot from the footage they had pulled. The image was magnified, but Peter would have recognized the face regardless.

Both agents spoke in unison. "Lorenzo."

Peter leaned back in the chair. "Dammit." Neal's chances had significantly dropped, but Peter was reluctant to acknowledge that. "Lorenzo - the bomb guy? I thought Counter-T would have caught him by now. What the hell does he want with Neal?"

Diana's expression said she knew about as much as he did. "He's good. Forensics didn't lift anything. They must have worn gloves."

"They?"

"He had two other guys with him that helped to...grab Neal, but they were wearing masks." Stumbling over her words reminded Diana that she could pretend not to care, but it did nothing to stop her missing the crazy consultant and his annoying antics. And she didn't think she could be sentimental to a guy so wrapped up in his own ego.

"What's that supposed to mean? Lorenzo wants us to know he's taken him?"

Diana didn't have an answer, but Peter wasn't expecting one. Finding the remote for the big screen at the front, he hit play. The footage Diana had set up showed Neal walking down the street, arms drawn in against the cold and hat tilted on his head. It also showed Neal oblivious to Lorenzo coming up behind him. Peter's stomach twisted as he watched their attacker take a bat to Neal's head just as a black van - no plates - pulled up to the pavement. Two masked thugs got out of the side door and helped Lorenzo drag a now-unconscious Neal inside. His cut tracker was thrown out of the van before the doors slid closed, and it drove off just as the footage stopped.

"So a black van, sliding doors, no plates. That narrows it down." Peter huffed in frustration. He'd told himself that it would be simple. Worked through it in his head. They'd find something immediately that would tell them where Neal was, and they'd have him back before the night was over. Now he wasn't so sure.

"I'll call everyone back in here and get them updated."

Peter nodded. He'd never thanked Diana enough for just being herself. "Yes, let's pull Lorenzo's file and all his known aliases. Make sure anyone with any possible lead speaks up."

"Got it, boss." Diana headed back down into the bullpen, and Peter got up and headed to a quiet corner of the office to call his wife. He couldn't put off telling El any longer, and right now he needed to hear her voice. She'd say something that would make this easier.

He took out his mobile and dialled. "Hey, hon."


	12. Voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so you may have noticed I've changed the warnings for the fic - which mostly comes down to this chapter being darker than I'd intended when I'd first drafted the plot. If you'd appreciate specific warnings- without giving too much away - there will be some strong violence, blood, and hospital squick over the next couple of chapters. Other than that, specific tags remain the same.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Neal awoke the second time, he wished he could say there'd been a change. He was still surrounded by darkness, he still felt like hell, and he wasn't quite sure if his head was still attached to the rest of him.

The thing that scared him most, was the possibility that his kidnapper wasn't intending to come back for him. That he would die a slow miserable death sat here on the ground with his back against a wall and hands bound.

Concussions really made him morbid.

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but even then he couldn't make anything out of the blindness enveloping him on all sides. He realised he needed to draft up an action plan, because sitting on the ground and wallowing wasn't going to get him anywhere. So he hoisted himself to his feet, which was a slow, arduous process, with his head screaming at him to just sit back down. Given the fact just getting to his feet made him want to throw up, he must have been hit pretty hard.

He walked slowly forwards, aligning the back of one heel to the toe of the other. He had his arms out in front of him to prevent him stumbling blindly into some furnishing or whatever else would be placed inconveniently in his way.

He counted his steps. One. Two. Three.

By the time he had paced the entire room, wall to wall, his findings didn't make himself feel better about the situation. The room was no longer a room, and had been downgraded to a box. Said box had corrugated iron sides, and from the wall he'd been sat against to what he presumed was the door was no more than twenty foot. The box was longer that way than it was across, so rectangular...

A shipping container. That was his best bet. Which meant no matter how suave a conman you were, it was impossible to get out of one from the inside. But on a more positive note, shipping containers were very rarely airtight, so he could rule out death by asphyxiation. That left dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, boredom...

Not to mention death by Peter - which was most likely what Peter was plotting to do right now if he believed he'd ran.

It wasn't fair, he'd had no intention of running. Actually, he was going to go home - having blown off steam - and share a bottle of Caballero de la Cepa with...himself, because his only true friend was a little past the point of needing to hydrate any more. But he'd indulge Mozz, and spend the night listening to whatever wild conspiracy theory the ghost had recently dreamt up. Then he'd order a takeout; he was in the mood for Chinese, and he'd be sure to send some to the guys in the van that would have been parked opposite his house as per the terms of his house arrest.

But no, now he was stuck in a twenty foot shipping container with no Caballero de la Cepa, no Mozz, and no Chinese. Life was cruel.

"Could really use a hand now, Moz," he called out into the emptiness, half expecting an answer.

What he got was the door being wrenched open, and a face full of light that almost seared through his eyelids. He groaned and screwed his eyes shut tightly, putting his bound arms up in front of his face in a pitiful attempt to shield himself from whoever was coming until he wasn't so blind any more.

This allowed his kidnapper to quite easily pull him to his feet by his hands. He groaned at the abrupt shift in position, blinking past the light filtering through the open door until the face of his kidnapper resembled something clearer. It took a while before Neal's brain helpfully supplied an identity to the face. After all he'd only ever seen an outdated picture in a file, and a passing glance as he'd ran towards the building that had been set to blow up with the FBI's finest inside.

"Lorenzo?" It was more of a question than a statement, because he still wasn't so sure. "As in the gem thief?"

Now he was confused. What would someone like Lorenzo - not to mention someone who was at the top of Counter-terrorism's priority list - want with someone like him?

Well, he could come up with a few possibilities but they didn't end in a handshake and a pat on the back.

"We have to stop meeting in such unfortunate circumstances." The man had a strong British accent, which was now practically the only thing the FBI knew about him other than the brother Neal had inadvertently discovered.

Neal didn't like the way the man smiled at him. Looking past him, he tried to get catch a glimpse outside - something that would help pinpoint his location. But the doorway was blocked by two apparent hired muscle. "What do you want?"

"Oooooh." Lorenzo looked gleeful. He drew out his words, a quirk which made him seem disconcerting. "What do I want?"

Lorenzo also had a way of looking incredibly pleased with himself, to the point it looked a little psychotic. His presence was unnerving, and his voice went right through Neal.

"Well," Lorenzo continued. "There's a lot of things I want, but right now it's nothing you can offer me. You're like snow, Neal."

Neal blinked. "Snow?"

"Yeah. Unpredictable, annoying, and you always make it really hard for me to do what I need to do. You have a tendency to get in the way of my business. I don't like snow."

"You were going to kill people. Innocent people."

Lorenzo scoffed and turned sharply away from him, and for a second Neal braced himself for a fist. Nothing came. He turned back around. "I've heard that about you before, Neal." He pointed a finger his way. "You have so much potential, but you always have to play the white knight. You're still a criminal, you know, whether you've killed a man or not."

"So by kidnapping me...?" Neal trailed off, allowing Lorenzo to fill in the gaps, so he had a faint idea of where he was on the you're-in-trouble scale.

"What did I do to you, Neal? Huh? I get it, you're a snitch for the feds, but now you've got me on everyone's most wanted list just because you want to get a gold star from your handler. Do you know how bad that is for business?"

"Look, I didn't-"

Neal doubled over as a fist sunk into his stomach, using all his willpower to keep himself on his feet. He inhaled sharply, straightening himself up again.

"So now I have to get out of the way for a bit, you know? Go to ground until the heat dies off. I'm sure you're familiar with that. But to do that, I need to tie up my loose ends here, and somehow, you seem to know more about me than you should. Do you want to explain that to me? You seem to have acquired a habit of knowing things you shouldn't. If I may ask, where does one find such information?"

Neal glared defiantly, wondering if luck would favour him if he tried to run past and somehow take out two burly doormen with his hands tied. But he spoke up quickly when Lorenzo made a move to strike him again. "I knew your brother! Before he died, I knew him."

That was BS, but it sounded much better than 'Oh, I was speaking to him while you were off blowing stuff up. Except it wasn't actually him. Just his ghost.'

Perhaps that may have been a better answer, because the one he offered got him a well-placed kick this time, which caught his shin and sent him ungracefully to the floor. Several kicks to his side had him curling in on himself in agony. _Come on, Peter, now would be a really good time to show up._

"Lies! Do you honestly expect me to believe that? Try again." Lorenzo seemed to be getting impatient, but it wasn't Neal's fault he was chosen as ghost whisperer of the year. Neal slowly and painfully heaved himself back into a sitting position, scowling up at the man.

"You won't believe me," he breathed. A statement of fact.

"I don't think you have a better option," Lorenzo pointedly replied. Also fact.

Neal winced as he cradled his ribs, praying none of them were broken. Quite frankly, Lorenzo was correct in the fact that he did have no other options. He could either go through every lie in the book and get the crap kicked out of him, or tell him the truth and most likely get the crap kicked out of him. It was a lose-lose situation, but Neal didn't think he had the brainpower in his deteriorating state to craft a lie complex enough to fool him.

Truth it was.

"I can see ghosts." His voice barely graced above a whisper, so he cleared his throat and spoke up. "I see ghosts. There, I told you that you wouldn't believe me. Don't know how. Don't know why. I just...do. I spoke to your brother while you were busy playing FBI eradicator."

He flinched as he was pulled painfully up to his feet again, Lorenzo now staring hard at him. Those eyes would haunt his dreams.

"You're supposed to be the best of the best. That's just insulting."

Neal didn't feel the knife go in at first, nor did he see where the hell it had even come from until it was yanked out of his gut. A strangled cry was the only thing he could produce as he sank back down to the floor, eyes wide with shock, and mouth gaping for air that suddenly felt too thick.

"Like I said, Neal, no hard feelings. Just tying up loose ends. Cheers." Lorenzo threw the knife down and it skittered across the cold, metal floor. He gave something that resembled a wave, before turning tail and strolling out past the two thugs, who followed, shutting the door behind themselves. The bolt slid shut with an audible click.

_And now you're screwed._

It seemed an eternity had passed before Neal finally remembered how to breathe. He drew in a sharp gasp, choking on the air that was no longer sustaining. _Don't panic_ _,_ he told himself. Panicking would just kill him quicker.

The worse thing about his awful predicament -if there could be only one - was that with his hands tied, he couldn't apply pressure to the wound. He tried his best with his arm, and he quickly felt the warmth of his blood creeping through the fabric of his blazer.

_So that's it. You escape a mental facility, pull some of the greatest heists of your time, evade the FBI most of your life, and you bleed out on the floor of a shipping container. How elegant.  
_

It took a long time and an unbearable amount of pain, but he managed to manoeuvre himself until he was laid out flat on the floor, hoping that would stem the blood flow a little better. Because there was little else he could do.

It could have been minutes, but it felt like hours of staring up at the ceiling, listening to his own ragged, dying breaths before he could sink into a blissful unconsciousness. He was relieved when it came.

\---

_He was trying to dream. Dreams were a better alternative to reality and it felt good to be able to uproot his existence so he didn't have to witness every second of himself bleeding out into the cold oblivion. In a dream, there were no rules, and the best kind of dreams had no boundaries._

_You could be anything. Anyone._

_And best of all you are free to do whatever you want, because all your actions would be wiped clean from the slate once you awaken. In Neal's dreams, he didn't have to be the freak, or the wierdo that talks to himself. He didn't have to live up to expectations, or pretend to be something he wasn't. He finally felt free. Free of the lies, and free of the curse that had come between him and every aspect of his life.  
_

_Once you are reunited with what actually is, there is a chance you don't even remember your dream; you have nothing to prove you were even anything other than your ordinary, regular self. But dreams offer an escape, a chance to walk a different path, a chance to create something other than the life you lead with open eyes. His dreams helped him escape the troubles that plagued him every minute of every day, and allowed him to picture what it would be like to be normal.  
_

But it was hard to dream when there was a voice telling you to open your eyes, open your eyes, and Neal really didn't want to open his eyes because sleep seemed like a better option. But the voice kept chanting it, until Neal did as the voice wanted - not to please it, but to politely ask for it to go away.

He must have muttered something - not that he was too sure, because the voice stopped telling him what to do and instead sighed in what sounded like relief.

"Peter?" he pressed cautiously, but it was still too dark to tell whether there was even anyone in the room in the first place. He could just be going insane. Maybe he'd been insane all along.

"No." The voice was clipped, blunt. He wasn't sure he recognised it.

"Then who?"

"You're in trouble."

Yeah, Neal had gathered. "You're helpful," he replied, and then closed his eyes again, because he was pretty sure he was talking to himself.

"Don't close your eyes, Neal."

"You can't tell me what to do. You don't exist."

"Not to anyone else - at least, not anymore. But to you I do."

"That makes no sense." Now Neal was confused. And he just wanted to close his eyes, but he knew the voice wouldn't let him, which was pretty mean, considering he was dying and all.

"They're close to finding you. Peter's worried. They all are. You've made quite an impression."

Neal wasn't sure how much blood he had lost, most likely too much, but he didn't think blood loss caused delusions to this extent. He was pretty sure being stabbed had finally made him realise he was off his rocker.

If everyone else was right - had been right all along -  and the ghosts were only figments of his ill imagination, then that would make for a pretty poor tale. When one couldn't be sure of his own sanity, one was most likely insane. That was good. He'd have to write that down.

"Stay with me, Neal."

There it was again.

"You're not even here," he pointed out, wincing as the pain radiated through him. The concussion and shock was concealing most of it, but every now and then a spark caught him off guard. "You're like snow," he added, flexing his numb hands against the ties.

"Now that definitely doesn't make sense."

Neal frowned. The voice was mocking him, and that really wasn't fair. But it hadn't made sense to him either, so he shrugged. A bad mistake, because the next thing he knew, he was blinking his eyes open again, before he'd even realised he'd gone anywhere.

"You with me?"

"I'm not sure anymore. Am I already dead? I'm pretty sure I'm dead. Either that, or it's gonna be like one of those 90's movies, where I'll wake up and find I'm still in Sunnydale, and have been all my life. Wouldn't that be a plot twist?"

"You're not dead."

"How would you know?"

"I have a pretty good idea."

"Oh." Neal wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so he fell silent. "It's cold..." he said after a while.

"I know. They're coming," the voice assured him.

"You said that last time."

"I'm sorry," the reply took longer this time, but after that nothing else was said. The silence stretched out, and Neal noticed his breaths weren't as loud as they had been before. Good, maybe he could get some sleep.

"Can I close my eyes now?" He asked, but there was no reply.

 


	13. Rescue

Neal could barely summon enough energy to open his eyes. When he did, he wasn't sure why he was so surprised to see Peter hovering inches from his face. He'd always assumed the agent would be there when it counted to extract him from a situation like this.

Peter looked really worried. That, to be quite honest, was the only thing his brain could come up with. Oh and the cold - it was really, really cold. But was it cold? Peter wasn't wearing a coat, but then again Neal wasn't entirely sure that Peter was even there.

Possibly fake Peter had his hands buried in Neal's guts, making him want to point out to the agent that it wasn't a very effective method of keeping his blood inside him. He could see his handler's hands were covered in the stuff. But pointing it out would also inform Peter that his suit was also covered in blood, and Neal didn't want to get sent back to prison for ruining the only suit the man ever seemed to wear.

So he kept quiet. Peter really wanted conversation though - he kept calling his name and telling him not to close his eyes - _keep talking Neal, just stay with me_. That was easier said than done. So he closed his eyes, possibly to spite Peter but also because it was so damn cold.

He heard the agent's urgent voice telling him to hold on, and Neal tried to tell him that he wasn't holding on to anything. Except his voice didn't sound right, and Peter suddenly looked further away than the last time he'd opened his eyes. He was pretty convinced now that fake Peter was definitely an imposter, and he was about to ask why bleeding out on the floor of a shipping container made him hallucinate imaginary Peters. But his eyes didn't want to open again now, and his mouth definitely _did not_ want to work, so he gave up.

Peter would be disappointed - Neal Caffrey never gave up.

\---

"Jesus, kid." Peter's eyes went wide when he rolled Neal onto his back to get a proper look at the damage. He was suddenly very, very afraid. He'd been so relieved when they had finally located Neal's container, but Peter hadn't even considered what state they would find him in _._ The weight of the discovery was crushing him inside.

Diana was on the phone behind him, but her voice was far away.  Peter focused on stemming the flow of crimson coming from the deep gash in his consultants side. The words _blood loss_ and _ambulance_ didn't seem quite real when they were in the context of Neal Caffrey - superhuman entity at it's finest. But the blood - so much blood - proved how very real the situation was. Neal was freezing, and his skin was far too pale - Peter couldn't begin to imagine how long he'd been like this before they'd found him.

The dark voice in the back of his head was telling him that El was really going to miss the kid, but Peter kicked that voice aside because Neal was going to be just fine. Neal was _always_ fine, and that wasn't going to change now. Not now, not ever. But if it wasn't for the faint pulse drumming under Peter's fingertips, he would have thought they had arrived too late. Because when they first opened that container and were hit with the strong copper tang of blood, Peter had thought Neal was already gone.

An almost lifeless moan caught Peter's attention. He caught a glimpse of blue in the pain-stricken, blown pupils of his consultants eyes. He brushed a thumb over Neal's cheek - anything to get the kid to focus on him, to convince Peter that he wasn't dying and that he had a damn good chance of getting out of this. But it was as though Neal didn't even see him, and that worried him more than ever.

"Come on, Neal, I need you to look at me...okay?" Peter hated how all confidence had suddenly left his voice, and how hard it was to reassure Neal that everything was going to be alright. Because this time, he really wasn't sure that would be the case. How much blood could a person lose and still be okay? Was this too much?

It seemed Neal's blood was everywhere but where it should be.

"You'll have plenty of time to sleep at the hospital, and you're gonna get better quick because I'll be needing your help with my crosswords."

He shook his head. What the hell was he doing? Neal was dying and he didn't even know what to say to him. He'd never been so speechless - and this was Peter Burke, so that was quite something.

"You're my friend, Neal. I care about you. Alright? There, I've said it. And sure, you're a pain in the ass sometimes but I _need_ you to just...be alive. Because I don't know what I'm supposed to do now, and that scares me, Neal. That really, really scares me..."

Peter guessed he was being a little hypocritical, because if Neal had started giving him the whole morbid death speech, Peter wouldn't have wanted to hear any of it. But Neal's eyes were closed again and it was becoming harder to convince the pulse under his fingertips to beat.

A hand replaced his above Neal's pulse, and other hands were moving him away from Neal's still form. He was about to fight them off, about to flash his badge, but Diana put a hand on his shoulder -  "You've done everything you can, Boss. You need to let the EMTs work.

Peter shrugged her off; he knew she was only trying to help but he needed air. He stepped out of the container, the harsh light revealing how much blood - Neal's blood - he was actually covered in. He stared down at his hands numbly, wondering what he could have done to stop this from going so _wrong_.

He could hear the paramedics behind him shouting orders to each other - but it was medical jargon and he was in state to decipher it. He couldn't face knowing how bad Neal's condition was. He couldn't face losing him.

Diana was back - He found she was steering him out of the way as they wheeled Neal past on the gurney. They began loading him into the ambulance. He was supposed to follow, but seeing Neal so still and so...unlike his usual self had him rooted to the spot. Was this what shock felt like? He was probably in shock. That would explain why Diana was pressing a phone - his phone - back into his hands, when he hadn't even seen her take it.

"I've phoned Elizabeth. She's going to meet us at the hospital. I'll drive us there."

This time a towel replaced the phone in his hands, and he blinked at it for a minute like he'd never seen such a thing before. But then he remembered that Neal's blood was all over his hands, and Diana probably didn't want that in her car. It almost seemed wrong to erase it though, because what if that was the only reminder he had left of Neal?

Somehow, they were now in Diana's car. As if it wasn't hard enough for him at the moment, it seemed time kept playing tricks on him as well.

Nothing else was said on the journey to the hospital. Diana drove, whilst Peter looked out of the window without really seeing what was there. Bitter silence accompanied the journey, both of them using the time to reflect on what had happened. After all, words wouldn't make a difference now.

\---

It was strange how fine-tuned your senses could become when every other part of you was numb. When you try so hard to avoid something, to take focus away from the real problem, your mind uses that misplaced focus to create distractions. Anything to prevent you from acknowledging what was left buried - out of sight, out of mind.

For example, on any other day Peter wouldn't have picked up on the light, anxious tapping of fingernails against knees, or how many cracks were in the plaster of the waiting room wall. Because any other day, Peter wouldn't have needed a distraction. Any other day, Neal wouldn't have been clinging to life on a cold, metal table under a surgeon's knife.

Peter felt like a stranger to the small gathering in the even smaller room. Elizabeth sat next to him, hand intertwined with his own. Small talk had fallen into steady silence hours ago, when they had run out of ways to say 'it'll be okay.'

Diana, of course, had been the one to escort him to the hospital. She was sat in a chair in the other corner, hopefully not realising that Peter knew every time she tried to hide the concerned glances at him. June was there too - had disregarded Diana's words over the phone when she'd promised to update her as soon as they had news. She'd taken the first cab down to the hospital. Clinton turned up as soon as he'd secured the crime scene, and joined the others in their silent prayers.

The final person in the room went unnoticed by the other five. But he was there, had been there from the start, because his friend was dying. And to hell with it if he was going to let a _mild_ phobia of germs - both hospital and suit-transmitted - stop him being there for the only friend he had.

On rare occasions it was nice being dead. You didn't have to put on a brave face, or pretend that you were actually coping, because nobody could see you to judge.

And if Neal died, nobody would ever see him again.

Mozzie lifted his gaze to look around the room, allowing none of it's occupants to escape his highly-critical gaze- almost like a father judging the first boyfriend his daughter brought home. So this was Neal's new family. He had yet to form opinions on them, and he certainly wouldn't have chosen  _feds_ \- that went against everything he'd taught Neal to believe in. But seeing the way they cared so deeply for him warmed some part of the ghost, because Neal had finally found the kind of love he deserved.

Still, Mozzie couldn't help being resentful towards Neal's handler. The FBI appeared to be all too willing to throw Neal head first into dangerous situations without a safety net and he hadn't done anything to stop that. Sure, Neal had never needed a net before, but now, when he needed that net more than ever, the Feds had let him fall.

"This won't happen again, Suit," Mozzie growled bitterly between clenched teeth. He wasn't quite sure whether he intended it to be a threat. Of course, not a head turned his way, and the ghost ceased the pacing he'd started hours ago, and disappeared from the room to wait.

He didn't go far.

 ---

"Family of Neal Caffrey?"

The entire room stood in unison as the doctor finally came in. The apprehension had reached a climax hours ago, and almost any news at this point would be well received. Peter didn't realise he was holding his breath. He waved a hand around the room, indicating Neal's slightly unconventional family.

The doctor was a stout but composed man, His professional manner indicated a familiarity with these situations. His face was bare of any expression, and he walked calmly but with purpose. His ability to put on a such a well crafted front could rival Neal. Peter choked on that thought, bringing a hand up against his forehead to compose himself.

Doctors had an expression of their own that gave nothing away until it was spoken. The voice of Neal in his head told him doctors were great at poker. But it was good news, right? Peter wanted to just yell at him, _just tell us whether we'll get to see him again!_

Peter's gut twisted. "Well?" he prompted, bracing himself for whatever news would come.

"Well, first I'd like to go through Mr. Caffrey's injuries with you-"

"So he's alive, yes?" Peter didn't want nor care for the whole routine theatrics. He'd been sitting in that chair for four straight hours. Now he needed a straight answer.

The doctor nodded, and the relief in everyone's eyes brightened the room. "Now, Mr. Caffrey sustained a deep knife wound-"

 _Bingo, Captain Obvious._ Peter didn't like this guy.

"-Just to the right of his stomach. He was very lucky. The knife missed any vital organs, so it is just tissue damage, which will ease his recovery somewhat."

_Oh thank God. You're gonna be okay, Neal..._

"Now, I'm not saying his recovery is going to be easy," the doctor continued calmly, like he was reading a weather report. "The blunt force trauma to his head has caused some internal bleeding, which we have been monitoring. Thankfully though, it appears to be healing by itself and isn't putting any pressure on his brain, so there is a good chance we won't have to operate. Other than that, Mr. Caffrey has one cracked rib, several large contusions - bruises - around the midsection and mild abrasions on his wrists."

"But other than that he'll be okay?"

"Physically, my prognosis is good. I can't give a clear date yet for when he'll be able to leave the hospital until we know how the wound is healing. But bar any unforeseen problems, Mr. Caffrey should be able to make a full recovery." The doctor paused, and Peter had a feeling this bit wasn't good.

"Psychologically however, this will have no doubt taken it's toll on his mind. I'm recommending he sees a specialist regularly once he is discharged, but I imagine that will be handled by the FBI?"

Peter nodded tightly. The last time Neal had seen a psychiatrist he'd freaked, and that was before he'd been stabbed and left for a slow, painful death. That was not going to go well. But they could cross that hurdle when they got there; Neal was going to be okay.

"Can we see him?" Elizabeth asked, since her husband had fallen silent. Her hand had never left his, so she squeezed it reassuringly. He returned the gesture, but didn't look at her. She hoped Peter realised that if he didn't willingly see a therapist about this too, she'd make him sleep on the couch till he did. She knew he wouldn't acknowledge how much this had affected him too until someone pointed it out. He still had the stains of Neal's blood on his hands for heaven's sake.

"Only briefly..." The doctor continued. "He is due another CT scan soon, so we can check on the internal bleeding. But not all at once. He's still unconscious from surgery and needs rest."

Having said what he needed to say, the doctor left without another word. Peter had to respect the guy despite his former opinions. It had to be hard dealing with death every day.

"He's going to be okay, Peter," El drew him into a hug, not sure he'd understood the enormity of that. "He's okay."

Peter hadn't felt such relief in his life. He finally looked at her, and then around the room. It took a few moments for the literal meaning of that to sink in, but when it did, Peter's lips curved up into a grin. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he laughed because there had been far too much of the latter recently.

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've piled on the angst for you guys in this chapter. Thanks for sticking by me.
> 
> It's sad, it seems this story is drawing to a close. Which means if you want to share your thoughts, you don't have much longer *hint hint*
> 
> Fun fact: The thirteenth chapter of this story has coincidentally but unintentionally been published on Friday the 13th. Now is that twice the bad luck or do they cancel each other out?
> 
> Have a great weekend!


	14. Crosswords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait. Blame writers block and my first draft being eaten. I'll try get the next one up sooner. A big thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos, it really means a lot.

It had just struck the forty-eighth hour into the bedside vigil Peter was holding at the hospital. He watched helplessly as Neal settled back down after a particularly bad awakening. Since his consultant had been brought to the hospital, he'd been so out of it he hadn't once acknowledged the agent's presence, but startled frequently to nightmares, fighting unseen monsters until he settled back down again. He was like that all through the night, and it crippled the agent to see the kid in such a state and not be able to do _anything_.

Whatever was in his IV was doing a good job at keeping him delirious, but Peter decided that was a good thing because at least then he wasn't in pain. Though Neal hadn't properly woken yet, he'd been restless all night, and Peter didn't want to leave him to wake up again to an empty room in an unfamiliar place. He'd flashed his badge at the nurses, and told them Neal was a top priority flight risk and therefore needed constant supervision. He suspected they didn't believe his white lie any more than he did, but they were kind enough to let him stay.

He studied Neal's face - took note of the paleness of his skin and the way his closed eyes were almost sunken and shadowed. To be quite honest, Peter wouldn't have believed Neal was still alive if it weren't for the machines on the other side of the bed that noisily monitored his existence. Thanks to the same machines, taking naps in between Neal's bouts of conciousness was impossible, the agent noted dryly as he rubbed his eyes for the tenth time that hour.

There were less wires than Peter had imagined, which made the situation look much better than it was. As the knife had missed any vital organs, the only extra support other than the monitors was an IV line, which had stopped transfusing blood and was now pumping him full of nutrients and feel-good medicine.

The doctors had assured him that Neal would wake up when his body was ready, and that rest was key to his recovery.

A lot of people from work had stopped by to wish the conman well, but longer visits had been held off until Neal was lucid and ready for them. Nevertheless, the room was still full of cards and flowers, and a large helium balloon guarded the doorway. Even people from other divisions had left messages. Peter hoped the display would be enough to convince Neal that he was important, and was deeply cared about by a lot of people, even if he didn't believe it. Whatever had happened to the kid in his past - which Peter noted was a topic he actively avoided - it had not only damaged Neal's ability to trust, but also his idea of self worth.

He hoped one day he'd be trusted enough to know what happened to him. But more importantly, he hoped that this nightmare hadn't broken Neal beyond repair.

\---

El had requested - with some amount of force - that Peter went home and changed his clothes, took a shower, and caught up on some sleep. Real sleep - not counting the hours spent only mildly snoozing whilst contorted into all manner of positions in the bulky hospital chairs. Peter had to comply; she was his wife after all, but he had not spent a minute longer than he had to away from the hospital.

Peter couldn't hide from the self-blame, even given the fact he knew nothing he'd done had directly contributed to this. It was his job to keep Neal safe, after all, and he'd royally messed that up. So the least he could do now was be there for Neal when he needed him most. He dreaded him waking up alone and afraid like he had been in the shipping container, so very quickly Peter found himself back in the same uncomfortable chair, in the same morbid hospital, only with a different newspaper with a new crossword. Same day, different distraction.

"Four across..." Peter tapped his pen in an upbeat rhythm against the New York Times. "Five letters. Escape by trickery." He mused aloud to himself to fill the void. Physically, Neal was only a few feet away, but Peter had never felt so alone. With some amount of concentration - if he drowned out the sounds of the hospital - it was just like any other day at the office.

He smiled to himself, before looking back over at Neal. "You'd like this one," he commented, silently wishing Neal would pout or frown in that ridiculous way of his, or come back with some mock-insulted remark. But he got nothing, and tried to hide his disappointment despite him being the only other person in the room. He scribbled in an answer. "Evade," he muttered, just in case Neal wanted to know.

"Oh, what about this one. Nine down, seven letters. An ally or companion." He chewed the end of the pen in thought - a terrible habit but somewhat effective.

"Partner."

It was so weak he almost missed it, but he couldn't mistake that the reply came from Neal - that or he was deluded. He straightened immediately, leaning over the hospital bed with hands hovering uselessly. "Neal?" 

There was no other movement from the bed. He gently placed a hand on Neal's shoulder, contemplating whether or not to get a nurse. He'd been warned Neal may talk in his sleep and had witnessed it himself enough times over the last few days to know not to attach hope to unconscious mumbling. "Can you hear me?"

"Nine down...it's partner." Neal's pale, cracked lips were moving, even if his voice was barely audible. The agent quickly realised what Neal was referring to, which meant he was awake. _Really_ awake, and not just trapped in delirium. 

As if on cue, Neal's eyes flickered then, squinting a little against the intensity of the lights in the room before locking onto Peter's.

The agent looked down at his crossword and scoffed, setting it down beside him as he fumbled for words. "You always were better at them than me," Peter managed eventually,  his face flooding with relief at seeing the younger man awake. "Hey..." He didn't know what else to say, but it must have been right because Neal smiled weakly.

"Hey yourself. Where..." Neal had to pause to catch his breath, not quite understanding why he was so weak.

"Hospital." Peter finished for him, seeing how much effort it seemed to take for just a few words. He imagined whatever drugs the hospital had him on were doing a good job of slowing him down, so he briefly filled him in, skipping some of the more you-nearly-died details. "You've been here a couple of days. But the doctors said you were lucky - you're pretty banged up but you're gonna get better."

It was Neal's turn to look relieved - very, very relieved, but it was a sluggish gesture which Peter secretly thought looked quite adorable. "So that's two of my nine lives gone..." he muttered, wincing a little as he shifted marginally on the bed to seek out a more comfortable position.

Peter chuckled but quickly sobered when his brain double checked the meaning of those words. His humour dissolved into a questioning frown and he straightened up. "Two?"

Neal opted for playing possum, not having enough of his brain on his side to stealthily con his way out of an explanation. But Peter was persistent. "Hey, you said two-"

"You don't know about that."

Peter smirked at Neal's slightly slurred voice. He must be getting tired. "I don't?"

"No. Oh wait...that would make it three then, if you count that time in-"

Peter threw his hands up, shaking his head. "I don't think I want to know."

Neal's eyes were closed again now, and his breathing was evening out. "No. You don't."

Peter sighed to himself, knowing he'd eventually bring that up one day, just not now. Now, Neal needed sleep, and time to recover. He picked up his paper, struck by the realisation that Neal really was going to be okay, and despite nearly losing him, everything would work out okay. His finger traced the newspaper ink absently, while he watched his consultant's eyes flicker. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

There was initially no reply, and Peter thought he'd already dozed off. But a small voice spoke up, "Thanks...partner."

\---

The next time Neal woke up, Elizabeth had replaced Peter in the tacky hospital chair. Neal looked around for the agent, not doing the best job at disguising his disappointment, which he blamed on the drugs and not his near-death experience making him clingy.

She must have interpreted that disappointment, because she set her Kindle down and leaned over to squeeze his hand. "Hey, you. Peter still hasn't come back yet, but it shouldn't be long."

"He left?" Neal's response was childlike - brief and slightly higher than he'd intended. He realised how young he sounded, but words weren't doing him much favours and his brain felt like porridge. What he didn't miss was the brief flash of concern on her face, that was quickly replaced by the same motherly expression he'd seen when Peter had brought him home after the bomb case.

"A few hours ago, sweetie. You woke up just before he left. He told you he needed to sort a few things out at work but then he'd be right back."

"Oh." When Neal tried to force himself to remember he could feel the onset of a headache, so he accepted defeat.

"Don't worry, you're still recovering, Neal. So things are going to be a bit patchy at the moment, but you're getting better. That's all that matters."

Elizabeth wished she could make things better for him, but there was only so much she could do. Peter hadn't given her all the details of what had happened. He just said it was bad, and that Neal had been alone through it. Peter rarely hesitated when he was talking about a case, even the grim ones. She couldn't imagine what Neal had been through and wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Yeah," Neal muttered eventually, but his heart wasn't in it.

He closed his eyes then, hoping that feigning sleep would allow him to just think for a while, without having to make an attempt at conversation. He felt a little selfish - they only wanted to be there for him, but right now he needed some time to work things out before they overwhelmed him. This lack of control was something he'd never wanted to revisit.

Elizabeth left a while later but Peter hadn't come back in, so he presumed she'd gone to get coffee or a snack.

"That was a close one," another rough voice drawled not long after.

Neal's eyes bolted open, the voice taking him back to the storage container. Though he was still in the hospital, he could feel the coldness of the steel floor, and fiery pain in his chest like something was trying to burst out of it. It was the same voice, the one that had filled the hours of silence, made him question what reality even was to him anymore.

He didn't realise the pain in his chest was actually because he'd pulled himself upright until he heard how abnormal his breathing was, and suddenly realised he was surrounded by nurses. But he didn't want any of that, and tried to move to look around them to find out where the voice was coming from. He had to know.

He barely felt a needle in his arm, but he did start to feel really, really heavy. Looking down, he noticed he'd pulled his IV line out, and he numbly watched the miniature bead of blood race down his arm like it wasn't quite his.

He remembered, back in that dreadful container, thinking about how he'd feel to learn this wasn't actually his reality - that perhaps he wasn't really awake. Or, that he'd dreamt this entire alternate lifestyle up for himself as a result of his unstable mind, and was still nowhere other than Sunnydale. Suddenly that didn't seem all that impossible with the way things were going for him here. He started laughing, not fighting the hands that were manoeuvring him back into bed, and reattaching the things he'd pulled out. Maybe they just weren't real. A shadow moved out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't follow it.

He didn't remember closing his eyes until he could no longer hear his laughter.


	15. Understanding

Neal could hear distressed voices. His head felt like lead, but at the same time filled with cotton, if that were somehow possible. It took him a few moments to make sense of what had just happened; he scolded himself for making such a scene. He wanted to look for the voice from before, but also didn't want to draw attention to his now concious presence until he knew who else was in the room, so nothing could startle him like before. Instead, he kept his eyes closed and listened.

"Hon, I was only away for ten minutes." That was El. She was crying. "He was fine when I left, and I wasn't there-"

"Shh, It's not your fault." Peter this time. "I thought he was doing well - at least given the circumstances - too. Clearly this has shaken him up a lot, but it's nothing you or I did wrong. It's that bastard Lorenzo."

Guilt pulled at Neal. He hated that they were feeling guilty for his careless actions. It seemed that everything he did had poor consequences - and no matter how hard he tried to control them, they always hurt the people he cared about. In fact, if he didn't still have a gaping hole in his chest then this would have been the point in work release where he would _really_ consider running. Not just fantasise, or dream to pass the time, but leave without ever looking back. Because that's what he did - he ran away from his problems. That's what he's always done.

"It's gonna get better, El. He'll get through this - we'll help him get through this. It will just take some time. I'm not going to lose another consultant."

Silence followed then, and Neal assumed they were hugging. He knew he shouldn't be listening, but he needed some truth - about what people thought about him. He deserved some truth. That, and well, he wasn't quite ready to talk about what had happened to him, or explain what had caused his episode in the hospital.

He was only psychic after all, not a ghost whisperer in Peter's eyes, which was another hurdle he was going to have to cross when he reached it. Admitting to being psychic was hard enough, but he didn't want to tell them that he believed there was - and still could be - a ghost sat in his room listening. Or that he hated hospitals with a passion because of the lingering death around every corner - not just the bodies -  and the fact that being in one before had sent the rest of his childhood into a downward spiral. One that never really fixed itself.

He shivered a passing memory, at the blood, and it must have been one loud shiver because Peter was telling Elizabeth to hold on and he could hear footsteps approaching. He hard his name being called, and he made a show of just waking up.

"Mhmm?" Neal mumbled in question. As he finally opened his eyes he looked not at the agent, but around the small room to see whether his undead visitor was still there. He wasn't.

In the meantime, Peter had said something, and Neal had only caught the back end of it. His head was swimming with medical narcotics and he made himself commit to avoiding another breakdown at all costs. He hated not being in control.

"Are you alright?" Peter spoke again, and thankfully Neal did hear that.

"Fine." He didn't mean to sound so abrupt but it came out that way. He watched Peter wince, but he didn't really care - he didn't feel like having another conversation. This one in particular. His gaze moved past Peter again, and he saw that Elizabeth was hovering uncertainly a few feet away, not knowing how to approach him. It was just like being back in Sunnydale, with the looks he was given, the uncertainty, people _afraid_ of him. He hated all of it.

He shifted one leg only slightly under the sheets, and with his foot sought out the sleek plastic of his tracker. It was back in place, wrapped securely around his ankle; Neal wasn't really sure how to feel. He let out a half-hearted laugh.

"Still expecting me to run with 20 staples in my chest? I'm honoured, Peter." He lifted his anklet-leg a little in indication. He wished he could stop sounding so bitter, but he wanted more than anything to be away from everyone right now, and out of this wretched place. It was starting to make him twitchy.

"Neal, you know that's not my choice. Of course I know you're not going to run, but-"

"Can I be alone? I mean, can you leave me alone for a little while?"

Peter stopped talking, eyeing Neal with a new level of concern. Elizabeth moved out of the background and towards her husband. "Neal-"

"I appreciate you being here for me, both of you. Really, I do. It's not exactly like I have anyone else. Alive, I mean." Neal let that last bit slip because he knew it didn't mean the same thing to Peter. Dead people were dead to him. To Neal, not so much. He took a breath and continued. "I just need some time to think about what happened, and I can't do that when you're all looking at me...when you're pitying me-"

It was Peter's turn to cut in. "Neal, we don't pity you. We're just really, really concerned, Christ - you nearly died, I thought for a minute that I'd let you down, and that this was something I wasn't able to fix." He rubbed the back of his head, suddenly wishing for El's motherly abilities. She could handle this kind of thing. "I know you want to believe you're fine, or maybe you think accepting help makes you weak, but it doesn't. Let us be here for you. You will get through this. You'll get better."

Their conversation was interrupted as a nurse came in to check him over. Peter turned away for a moment, Elizabeth looked down at her feet and the topic was hastily dropped. The nurse seemed to sense the tension but wasn't quite sure how to break the silence, figuring they would best be left alone to work through whatever problems they faced. She acted quickly, and after changing his IV and replacing his pain relief, she spared a quick glance between the three of them before leaving as silently as she'd come.

"See that's my problem," Neal continued when they were alone once more. His voice lacked it's previous force, as though he was losing what fight he had left in him.  "People are always trying to fix me-"

"Neal, That's not what I meant-"

"-I've spent my whole life being a burden on people. On people who only pretend to care. I have no one, Peter..."

The room went silent then. Elizabeth turned away. Neal suspected she might be crying. He didn't want to look at Peter's face. If he did he wouldn't be able to look away.

"Neal, no..."

"Please. I just want to be on my own..." Neal trailed off, defeat resonating in his voice. 

"Are you sure?" Peter was quieter this time, speaking carefully as though he was afraid to hurt Neal further. He wasn't really sure what was going on, and whether it was the drugs talking or not, but if Neal wanted to be alone he wouldn't push the issue. It was also getting late, which meant that visiting hours would be over very shortly anyway.

"Please."

With that, Peter picked up his coat and started heading for the door. Elizabeth followed behind, pausing at the door. She turned around. "You have us, sweetie, and we care very deeply about you. Remember that."

She paused for a few moments, and Neal realized she was waiting for a reply. He aimed for a smile but suspected it was more of a grimace.

They left then, and Neal was alone once more. He let out a long sigh he'd been holding for some time, closing his eyes and wishing he had enough strength to punch or throw something to relieve his pent up distress. He'd regret that, all of that, when the remains of his sedative and pain relief wore off. When he was more like himself he'd have to work out how to fix that. For now, though, he didn't have to try build up any walls or construct defences and could just be himself. That in itself was a huge weight off his shoulders.

The new dose of pain relief was settling in his bloodstream, so he very gently eased himself up into a sitting position - careful not to aggravate his wound, or do anything that might alert the nurses.

"Are there any wheelchairs nearby?" he spoke out into the room. "I know you're in here, so if you're gonna keep me company then you may as well be of some use."

It was odd; he couldn't see the ghost, but somehow he could feel it's presence. That didn't normally happen. He was sure it was the same one that had spoken to him before he'd gotten sedated. The same one that had stayed with him in what he thought would be his final hours.

"I'm really, really sorry for what happened earlier." It was the same voice, and now that Neal was lucid, the low, rough voice was strikingly familiar. Oh, he _really_ didn't see that coming. He also still didn't see the ghost.

"Marcus," Neal said plainly. Out of all the people he'd imagined, his stalker was not whom he imagined would sit and console him whilst he was dying. Of course, back then he was too out of it to put a voice to a face, but it all made sense now. He shook his head in dismay, fighting to hold back a laugh at the whole absurdity of this new information.

"I didn't think you'd cause a scene. You're normally much more controlled."

Neal narrowed his eyes as he tried to pinpoint the location of the voice. He was almost right - the ghost formed in the corner of his eye and he turned his head to look at him. The ghost was sarcastic, and Neal responded in kind. "Well, normally I don't get stabbed and left for dead. You chose the worst possible moment for a reunion. I meant what I said. Are there any wheelchairs nearby?"

"You're not planning on leaving." It was more a statement than a question but not quite a threat. 

Neal shifted a little on the bed until his legs were swinging over the side. The ghost didn't seem to be inclined to help him.

Marcus could see he was committed, so he sighed and offered an answer. "There's one just down the hallway, but you'd never make it. Not when your innards are this close- " he pinched his fingers to demonstrate, "- to becoming outers. You'd make quite a mess, and if I recall you already have once this week."

Neal couldn't help but appreciate the ghost's dry humour. It was much better than concern, which Neal had gotten too much of recently. Not that he didn't appreciate that - it was just so unfamiliar and equally overwhelming. He studied the linoleum floor for what seemed like an age, hands braced tightly at either side of him. He considered each of his limited options - he could risk it, but if it didn't work out, cue an even more concerned Peter. That wouldn't be good for the man's blood pressure.

"Don't forget I can't pick you up," Marcus supplied helpfully. Neal knew the ghost was finding this amusing. Still, he couldn't stay here - but he wasn't quite sure whether that meant the hospital or New York.

"You've changed your tune," Neal commented. "These past few months I've been convinced you've had it in for me and Peter."

The ghost suddenly wasn't there anymore, but Neal wasn't ready to end this conversation. He needed answers. "Wait! I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"He cares about you," The ghost reappeared by the window, looking out into street absently. The first few street lamps were starting to turn on, and the people leaving the hospital also looked like ghosts under the illuminating glow. "You didn't see his face when he found you, or the things he said when you were unconscious."

Neal swallowed, looking up from the floor. There was truth in those words; he'd missed a lot in the last few days. He didn't say anything, silently inviting the ghost to continue.

"I didn't like you, Neal, when I first saw him leaving the prison with you. To be blunt - I hated you. I guess I'd never considered that with me gone, he'd replace me eventually. I'd heard you were psychic. I wanted to throw you off your game, so that you'd either run or end up back in prison. I don't like the word jealousy, but it seems quite appropriate here. Your a tough nut to crack, Neal, and there's only so much I can do when I'm dead..."

The ghost turned and looked at him, and Neal stared back. Marcus faltered first, and looked back out of the window. "Then you got yourself sliced and diced by a psychopath, and I was the one watching them all tear around the office like they'd lost one of their own. Everyone was doing their bit - even other agencies loaned their resources to help find you. When Peter opened that container...well, I've never seen him so afraid. I've realised that there's no point in envying what you have, when I was the one that messed up and threw my life away. Since I died, I haven't seen him as happy as he's been since you got that tracker on your foot. That's good enough for me."

The ghost's voice had picked up in volume, and only then did Neal notice that before they were barely whispering. It occurred to Neal that being dead must have really hit the man hard. It's just too hard to imagine unless you're in that position - doomed to wander the earth eternally without ever making a difference.

Marcus hadn't yet turned around, but with a sly glance he could see Neal was still hanging over the side of the bed, and a hand was resting above his IV wire. He was thinking deeply, Marcus could tell, but he also knew the consultant had heard every word. He cleared his throat. "You could run - or, make a somewhat valiant effort to the door before they have to scrape you off the floor - but the point is you only get one second chance. And believe me, you don't want to mess that up. I only realised that when it was too late."

The conman met the eyes of the ghost for a few seconds and it was as though they had found peace in each other. Neal realised Marcus wasn't evil, just misunderstood and alone in the world, just like he was. They were the same, just with different problems. It took some time before the weight of those words sank in. He looked down at the floor one last time, before carefully swinging his legs up and laying back down in the hospital bed. He stared up at the ceiling, going over what the ghost had told him. It struck him that he still didn't know how the ghost had died.

"Hey, Marcus?"

The room was empty.


End file.
